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1 03  263 


THE     SOX-WEED     FACTOR 


by  John  Barth          THE  FI-OATINC  OPFJRA 

THE    KKI>    OF    XJfcUE    ROAJD  THJ£    SOT-'WJeKO    FACTOR 


The  SOT-WEED 
FACTOR 


BY   JOHN    EARTH 


DOUBLEDAY  &  COMPANY,  INC.,  GARDEN  CITY,  NEW  YORK 

1960 


All  of  the  characters  in   this  book 

are   fictitious,   and  any    resemblance 

to   actual    persons,   living  or     dead, 

is   purely   coincidental. 


Library  of  Congress   Catalog  Card  Kumber   60-0467 

Copyright  <g)    i<)6o   by    John    Barth 

All     Rights    Reserved 

Printed   in   the    United   States   «*£   Aimnrica 


£>esigrt;   Charles  Kaplan 


CONTENTS 

PART  I:    THE  MOMENTOUS  WAGER 


i :    The  Poet  Is  Introduced,  and  Differentiated  From  His  Fellows          13 

2:     The  Remarkable  Manner  in  Which  Ebenezer  Was  Educated, 
and  the  No  Less  Remarkable  Results  of  That  Education  15 

3:     Ebenezer  Is  Rescued,  and  Hears  a  Diverting  Tale  Involving 
Isaac  Newton  and  Other  Notables  22 

4:     Ebenezer's  First  Sojourn  in  London,  and  the  Issue  of  It          36 

5:     Ebenezer  Commences  His  Second  Sojourn  in  London,  and 
Fares  Unspectacularly  51 

6:     The  Momentous  Wager  Between  Ebenezer  and  Ben  Oliver, 
and  Its  Uncommon  Result  56 

7:    The  Conversation  Between  Ebenezer  and  the  Whore  Joan 
Toast,  Including  the  Tale  of  the  Great  Tom  Leech  62 

8:    A  Colloquy  Between  Men  of  Principle,  and  What  Came  of  It          72 
9:     Ebenezer's  Audience  With  Lord  Baltimore,  and  His  In- 
genious Proposal  to  That  Gentleman  83 

10:  A  Brief  Relation  of  the  Maryland  Palatinate,  Its  Origins  and 
Struggles  for  Survival,  as  Told  to  Ebenezer  by  His  Host  89 

ii :  Ebenezer  Returns  to  His  Companions,  Finds  Them  Fewer 
by  One,  Leaves  Them  Fewer  by  Another,  and  Reflects  a  Reflec- 
tion 108 


[6] 


PART  II:    GOING  TO  MALDEN 

i:    The  Laureate  Acquires  a  Notebook  117 

21    The  Laureate  Departs  From  London  128 

3:  The  Laureate  Learns  the  True  Identity  of  Colonel  Peter 
Sayer  139 

4:    The  Laureate  Hears  the  Tale  of  Burlingame's  Late  Adventures         144 
5:    Burlingame's  Tale  Continued,  Till  Its  Teller  Falls  Asleep        151 

6:  Burlingame's  Tale  Carried  Yet  Farther;  the  Laureate  Reads 
From  The  Privie  Journdl  of  Sir  Henry  Burlingame  and  Discourses 
on  the  Nature  of  Innocence  162 

7:  Burlingame's  Tale  Concluded;  the  Travelers  Arrive  at  Plym- 
outh ijj 

8:    The  Laureate  Indites  a  Quatrain  and  Fouls  His  Breeches       181 

9:  Further  Sea-Poetry,  Composed  in  the  Stables  of  the  King 
o'  the  Seas  X86 

10:  The  Laureate  Suffers  Literary  Criticism  and  Boards  the 
Poseidon  jog 

11 :    Departure  From  Albion:  the  Laureate  at  Sea  209 

12:  The  Laureate  Discourses  on  Games  of  Chance  and  Debates 
the  Relative  Gentility  of  Valets  and  Poets  Laureate.  Bertrand 
Sets  Forth  the  Anatomy  of  Sophistication  and  Demonstrates  His 
Thesis  224 

13:  The  Laureate,  Awash  in  a  Sea  of  Difficulties,  Resolves  to  Be 
Laureate,  Not  Before  Inditing  Final  Sea-Couplets  239 

14:  The  Laureate  Is  Exposed  to  Two  Assassinations  of  Character, 
a  Piracy,  a  Near-Deflowering,  a  Near-Mutiny,  a  Murder,  and 
an  Appalling  Colloquy  Between  Captains  of  the  Sea,  All  Within 
the  Space  of  a  Few  Pages  255 

15:  The  Rape  of  the  Cyprian;  Also,  the  Tale  of  Hicktopeake,  King 
of  Accomack,  and  the  Greatest  Peril  the  Laureate  Has  Fallen  Into 
Thus  Far 


16:    The  Laureate  and  Bertrand,  Left  to  Drown,  Assume  Their 
Niches  in  the  Heavenly  Pantheon  286 

17:  The  Laureate  Meets  the  Anacostin  King  and  Learns  the  True 
Name  of  His  Ocean  Isle  301 

18:  The  Laureate  Pays  His  Fare  to  Cross  a  River  312 

19:  The  Laureate  Attends  a  Swine-Maiden's  Tale  317 

20:  The  Laureate  Attends  the  Swine-Maiden  Herself  327 

21:  The  Laureate  Yet  Further  Attends  the  Swine-Maiden  340 

22:  No  Ground  Is  Gained  Towards  the  Laureate's  Ultimate 
Objective,  but  Neither  Is  Any  Lost  349 

23:  In  His  Efforts  to  Get  to  the  Bottom  of  Things  the  Laureate 
Comes  Within  Sight  of  Maiden,  but  So-  Far  From  Arriving  There, 
Nearly  Falls  Into  the  Stars  359 

24:  The  Travelers  Hear  About  the  Singular  Martyrdom  of  Father 
Joseph  FitzMaurice,  S.J.:  a  Tale  Less  Relevant  in  Appearance 
Than  It  Will  Prove  in  Fact  366 

25:  Further  Passages  From  Captain  John  Smith's  Secret  Histo* 
rie  of  the  Voiage  Up  the  Bay  of  Chesapeake:  Dorchester  Dis- 
covered, and  How  the  Captain  First  Set  Foot  Upon  It  387 

26:    The  Journey  to  Cambridge,  and  the  Laureate's  Conversation 

by  the  Way  395 

27:    The  Laureate  Asserts  That  Justice  Is  Blind,  and  Armed  With 

This  Principle,  Settles  a  Litigation  407 

28:    If  the  Laureate  Is  Adam,  Then  Burlingame  Is  the  Serpent       420 

29:  The  Unhappy  End  of  Mynheer  Wilhelm  Tick,  As  Related  to 
the  Laureate  by  Mary  Mungummory,  the  Traveling  Whore  o' 
Dorset  427 

30:  Having  Agreed  That  Naught  Is  in  Men  Save  Perfidy,  Though 
Not  Necessarily  That  Jus  est  id  quod  cliens  fecit,  the  Laureate 
at  Last  Lays  Eyes  on  His  Estate  447 

31:  The  Laureate  Attains  Husbandhood  at  No  Expense  What- 
ever of  His  Innocence  462 

32:    A  Marylandiad  Is  Brought  to  Birth,  but  Its  Deliverer  Fares 

as  Badly  as  in  Any  Other  Chapter  479 


[8] 

33:    The  Laureate  Departs  From  His  Estate  493 

PART  III:    MALDEN  EARNED 

i:  The  Poet  Encounters  a  Man  With  Naught  to  Lose,  and 
Requires  Rescuing  5°7 

2:  A  Layman's  Pandect  of  Geminology  Compended  by  Henry 
Burlingame,  Cosmophilist  S1^ 

3:  A  Colloquy  Between  Ex-Laureates  of  Maryland,  Relating 
Duly  the  Trials  of  Miss  Lucy  Robotham  and  Concluding  With  an 
Assertion  Not  Lightly  Matched  for  Its  Implausibility  529 

4:  The  Poet  Crosses  Chesapeake  Bay,  but  Not  to  His  Intended 
Port  of  Call  543 

5:    Confrontations  and  Absolutions  in  Limbo  556 

6:  His  Future  at  Stake,  the  Poet  Reflects  on  a  Brace  of  Secular 
Mysteries  575 

7:    How  the  Ahatchwhoops  Doe  Choose  a  King  Over  Them        586 

8:    The  Fate  of  Father  Joseph  FitzMaurice,  S.J.,  Is  Further 
Illuminated,,  and  Itself  Illumines  Mysteries  More  Tenebrous  and 
Pregnant  600 

9:  At  Least  One  of  the  Pregnant  Mysteries  Is  Brought  to  Bed, 
With  Full  Measure  of  Travail,  but  Not  as  Yet  Delivered  to  the 
Light  611 

10 :  The  Englishing  of  Billy  Rumbly  Is  Related,  Purely  From 
Hearsay,  by  the  Traveling  Whore  o7  Dorset  622 

11 :  The  Tale  of  Billy  Rumbly  Is  Concluded  by  an  Eye-Witness 
to  His  Englishing.  Mary  Mungummory  Poses  the  Question,  Does 
Essential  Savagery  Lurk  Beneath  the  Skin  of  Civilization,  or 
Does  Essential  Civilization  Lurk  Beneath  the  Skin  of  Savagery? 
—but  Does  Not  Answer  It  638 

12:  The  Travelers  Having  Proceeded  Northward  to  Church 
Creek,  McEvoy  Out-Nobles  a  Nobleman,  and  the  Poet  Finds 
Himself  Knighted  Willy-Nilly  650 


13:  His  Majesty's  Provincial  Wind-  and  Water-Mill  Commis- 
sioners, With  Separate  Ends  in  View,  Have  Recourse  on  Separate 
Occasions  to  Allegory  659 

14:  Oblivion  Is  Attained  Twice  by  the  Miller's  Wife,  Once  by 
the  Miller  Himself,  and  Not  at  All  by  the  Poet,  Who  Likens  Life 
to  a  Shameless  Playwright  671 

15:  In  Pursuit  of  His  Manifold  Objectives  the  Poet  Meets  an 
Unsavaged  Savage  Husband  and  an  Unenglished  English  Wife  681 

16:  A  Sweeping  Generalization  Is  Proposed  Regarding  the 
Conservation  of  Cultural  Energy,  and  Demonstrated  With  the 
Aid  of  Rhetoric  and  Inadvertence  696 

17:  Having  Discovered  One  Unexpected  Relative  Already,,  the 
Poet  Hears  the  Tale  of  the  Invulnerable  Castle  and  Acquires 
Another  709 

18:  The  Poet  Wonders  Whether  the  Course  of  Human  History 
Is  a  Progress,  a  Drama,  a  Retrogression,  a  Cycle,  an  Undulation, 
a  Vortex,  a  Right-  or  Left-Handed  Spiral,  a  Mere  Continuum,  or 
What  Have  You.  Certain  Evidence  Is  Brought  Forward,  but  of  an 
Ambiguous  and  Inconclusive  Nature  725 

19:    The  Poet  Awakens  From  His  Dream  of  Hell  to  be  Judged  in 

Life  by  Rhadamanthus  744 

20:     The  Poet  Commences  His  Day  in  Court  760 

21:    The  Poet  Earns  His  Estate  774 


PART  IV:    THE  AUTHOR  APOLOGIZES  TO  HIS 

READERS;  THE  LAUREATE  COMPOSES  HIS  EPITAPH       791 


PART   I:      THE   MOMENTOUS  WAGER 


i:    THE  POET  IS  INTRODUCED,  AND 
DIFFERENTIATED  FROM  HIS  FELLOWS 


IN  THE  LAST  YEARS  OF  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  THERE  WAS  TO  BE 

found  among  the  fops  and  fools  of  the  London  coffee-houses  one  rangy, 
gangling  flitch  called  Ebenezer  Cooke,  more  ambitious  than  talented,  and 
yet  more  talented  than  prudent,  who,  like  his  friends-in-folly,  all  of  whom 
were  supposed  to  be  educating  at  Oxford  or  Cambridge,  had  found  the 
sound  of  Mother  English  more  fun  to  game  with  than  her  sense  to  labor 
over,  and  so  rather  than  applying  himself  to  the  pains  of  scholarship,  had 
learned  the  knack  of  versifying,  and  ground  out  quires  of  couplets  after 
the  fashion  of  the  day,  afroth  with  Joves  and  Jupiters,  aclang  with  jarring 
rhymes,  and  string-taut  with  similes  stretched  to  the  snapping-point. 

As  poet,  this  Ebenezer  was  not  better  nor  worse  than  his  fellows,  none 
of  whom  left  behind  him  anything  nobler  than  his  own  posterity;  but  four 
things  marked  him  off  from  them.  The  first  was  his  appearance:  pale-haired 
and  pale-eyed,  raw-boned  and  gaunt-cheeked,  he  stood— nay,  angled— nine- 
teen hands  high.  His  clothes  were  good  stuff  well  tailored,  but  they  hung  on 
his  frame  like  luffed  sails  on  long  spars.  Heron  of  a  man,  lean-limbed  and 
long-billed,  he  walked  and  sat  with  loose-jointed  poise;  his  every  stance 
was  angular  surprise,  his  each  gesture  half  flail.  Moreover  there  was  a 
discomposure  about  his  face,  as  though  his  features  got  on  ill  together: 
heron's  beak,  wolf-hound's  forehead,  pointed  chin,  lantern  jaw,  wash-blue 
eyes,  and  bony  blond  brows  had  minds  of  their  own,  went  their  own  ways, 
and  took  up  odd  stances.  They  moved  each  independent  of  the  rest  and 
fell  into  new  configurations,  which  often  as  not  had  no  relation  to  what  one 
took  as  his  mood  of  the  moment.  And  these  configurations  were  shortlived, 
for  like  restless  mallards  the  features  of  his  face  no  sooner  were  settled  than 
ha!  they'd  be  flushed,  and  hi!  how  they'd  flutter,  every  man  for  himself, 
and  no  man  could  say  what  lay  behind  them. 

The  second  was  his  age:  whereas  most  of  his  accomplices  were  scarce 
turned  twenty,  Ebenezer  at  the  time  of  this  chapter  was  more  nearly 


[  i  A  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

thirty,  yet  not  a  whit  more  wise  than  they,  and  with  six  or  seven  years' 
less  excuse  for  sharing  their  folly. 

The  third  was  his  origin:  Ebenezer  was  born  American,  though  he'd  not 
seen  his  birthplace  since  earliest  childhood.  His  father,  Andrew  Cooke  2nd, 
of  the  Parish  of  St.  Giles  in  the  Fields,  County  of  Middlesex— a  red-faced, 
white-chopped,  stout-winded  old  lecher  with  flinty  eye  and  withered  arm 
—had  spent  his  youth  in  Maryland  as  agent  for  a  British  manufacturer,  as 
had  his  father  before  him,  and  having  a  sharp  eye  for  goods  and  a  sharper 
for  men,  had  added  to  the  Cooke  estate  by  the  time  he  was  thirty  some 
one  thousand  acres  of  good  wood  and  arable  land  on  the  Choptank  River. 
The  point  on  which  this  land  lay  he  called  Cooke's  Point,  and  the  small 
manor-house  he  built  there,  Maiden.  He  married  late  in  life  and  con- 
ceived twin  children,  Ebenezer  and  his  sister  Anna,  whose  mother  (as  if 
such  an  inordinate  casting  had  cracked  the  mold)  died  bearing  them. 
When  the  twins  were  but  four  Andrew  returned  to  England,  leaving  Maiden 
in  the  hands  of  an  overseer,  and  thenceforth  employed  himself  as  a 
merchant,  sending  his  own  factors  to  the  plantations.  His  affairs  prospered, 
and  the  children  were  well  provided  for. 

The  fourth  thing  that  distinguished  Ebenezer  from  his  coffee-house 
associates  was  his  manner:  though  not  one  of  them  was  blessed  with  more 
talent  than  he  needed,  all  of  Ebenezer's  friends  put  on  great  airs  when 
together,  declaiming  their  verses,  denigrating  all  the  well-known  poets  of 
their  time  (and  any  members  of  their  own  circle  who  happened  to  be  not 
not  on  hand),  boasting  of  their  amorous  conquests  and  their  prospects 
for  imminent  success,  and  otherwise  behaving  in  a  manner  such  that,  had 
not  every  other  table  in  the  coffee-house  sported  a  like  ring  of  cox- 
combs, they'd  have  made  great  nuisances  of  themselves.  But  Ebenezer 
himself,  though  his  appearance  rendered  inconspicuousness  out  of  the 
question,  was  bent  to  taciturnity  and  undemonstrativeness.  He  was 
even  chilly.  Except  for  infrequent  bursts  of  garrulity  he  rarely  joined  in 
the  talk,  but  seemed  content  for  the  most  part  simply  to  watch  the  other 
birds  preen  their  feathers.  Some  took  this  withdrawal  as  a  sign  of  his 
contempt,  and  so  were  either  intimidated  or  angered  by  it,  according  to 
the  degree  of  their  own  self-confidence.  Others  took  it  for  modesty;  others 
for  shyness;  others  for  artistic  or  philosophical  detachment.  Had  it  been  in 
fact  symptom  of  any  one  of  these,  there  would  be  no  tale  to  tell;  in  truth, 
however,  this  manner  of  our  poet's  grew  out  of  something  much  more 
complicated,  which  well  warrants  recounting  his  childhood,  his  adventures, 
and  his  ultimate  demise. 


2:    THE  REMARKABLE  MANNER  IN  WHICH 
EBENEZER  WAS  EDUCATED,  AND  THE  NO  LESS 
REMARKABLE  RESULTS  OF  THAT  EDUCATION 


EBENEZER  AND  ANNA  HAD  BEEN  RAISED  TOGETHER.  THERE  HAPPENING  TO 

be  no  other  children  on  the  estate  in  St.  Giles,  they  grew  up  with  no 
playmates  except  each  other,  and  hence  became  unusually  close.  They 
always  played  the  same  games  together  and  were  educated  in  the  same 
subjects,  since  Andrew  was  wealthy  enough  to  provide  them  with  a  tutor, 
but  not  with  separate  tutoring.  Until  the  age  of  ten  they  even  shared  the 
same  bedroom— not  that  space  was  lacking  either  in  Andrew's  London 
house,  on  Plumtree  Street,  or  in  the  later  establishment  at  St.  Giles,  but 
because  Andrew's  old  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Twigg,  who  was  for  some  years 
their  governess,  had  in  the  beginning  been  so  taken  with  the  fact  of  their 
twinship  that  she'd  made  a  point  of  keeping  them  together,  and  then 
later,  when  their  increased  size  and  presumed  awareness  began  to  embarrass 
her,  they- had  come  so  to  enjoy  each  other's  company  that  she  was  for  a 
time  unable  to  resist  their  combined  protests  at  any  mention  of  separate 
chambers.  When  the  separation  was  finally  effected,  at  Andrew's  orders, 
it  was  merely  to  adjoining  rooms,  between  which  the  door  was  normally 
left  open  to  allow  for  conversation. 

In  the  light  of  all  this  it  is  not  surprising  that  even  after  puberty  there  was 
little  difference,  aside  from  the  physical  manifestations  of  their  sex,  between 
the  two  children.  Both  were  lively,  intelligent,  and  well-behaved.  Anna  was 
the  less  timid  of  the  two  (though  neither  was  especially  adventuresome), 
and  even  when  Ebenezer  naturally  grew  to  be  the  taller  and  physically 
stronger,  Anna  was  still  the  quicker  and  better  coordinated,  and  therefore 
usually  the  winner  in  the  games  they  played:  shuttlecock,  fives,  or  ptilk 
maille;  squails,  Meg  Merrilies,  jackstraws,  or  shove  ha'penny.  Both  were 
avid  readers,  and  loved  the  same  books:  among  the  classics,  the  Odyssey 
and  Ovid's  Metamorphoses,  the  Boofe  of  Martyrs  and  the  Lives  of  the 
Saints;  the  romances  of  Valentine  and  Orson,  Bevis  of  Hampton,  and 
Guy  of  Warwick;  the  tales  of  Robin  Good-Fellow,  Patient  Grisel,  and  the 
Foundlings  in  the  Wood;  and  among  the  newer  books,  Janeway's  Token 
for  Children,  Batchiler's  Virgins  Pattern,  and  Fisher's  Wise  Virgin,  as  well 


[  l6  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

as  Cacoethes  Leaden  Legacy,  The  Young  Mans  Warning-Peece,  The  Booke 
of  Mery  Kiddles,  and,  shortly  after  their  publication,  Pilgrims  Progress 
and  Keach's  War  with  the  Devil.  Perhaps  had  Andrew  been  less  preoccupied 
with  his  merchant-trading,  or  Mrs.  Twigg  with  her  religion,  her  gout, 
and  her  authority  over  the  other  servants,  Anna  would  have  been  kept  to 
her  dolls  and  embroidery-hoops,  and  Ebenezer  set  to  mastering  the  arts 
of  hunting  and  fencing.  But  they  were  seldom  subjected  to  any  direction 
at  all,  and  hence  drew  small  distinction  between  activities  proper  for  little 
girls  and  those  proper  for  little  boys. 

Their  favorite  recreation  was  play-acting.  Indoors  or  out,  hour  after  hour, 
they  played  at  pirates,  soldiers,  clerics,  Indians,  royalty,  giants,  martyrs,  lords 
and  ladies,  or  any  other  creatures  that  took  their  fancy,  inventing  action 
and  dialogue  as  they  played.  Sometimes  they  would  maintain  the  same  role 
for  days,  sometimes  only  for  minutes.  Ebenezer,  especially,  became  ingen- 
ious at  disguising  his  assumed  identity  in  the  presence  of  adults,  while  still 
revealing  it  clearly  enough  to  Anna,  to  her  great  delight,  by  some 
apparently  innocent  gesture  or  remark.  They  might  spend  an  autumn 
morning  playing  at  Adam  and  Eve  out  in  the  orchard,  for  example, 
and  when  at  dinner  their  father  forbade  them  to  return  there,  on  account 
of  the  mud,  Ebenezer  would  reply  with  a  knowing  nod,  "Mud's  not  the 
worst  oft:  I  saw  a  snake  as  well."  And  little  Anna,,  when  she  ha8  got  her 
breath  back,  would  declare,  "It  didn't  frighten  me,  but  Eben's  forehead 
hath  been  sweating  ever  since,"  and  pass  her  brother  the  bread.  At  night, 
both  before  and  after  their  separation  into  two  rooms,  they  would  either 
continue  to  make-believe  (necessarily  confining  themselves  to  dialogue,, 
which  they  found  it  easy  to  carry  on  in  the  dark)  or  else  play  word-games;  of 
these  they  had  a  great  variety,  ranging  from  the  simple  "How  many  words  do 
you  know  beginning  with  S?"  or  "How  many  words  rhyme  with  faster?"  to 
the  elaborate  codes,  reverse  pronunciations,  and  home-made  languages  of 
their  later  childhood,  which,  when  spoken  in  Andrew's  presence,  set  him 
into  a  thundering  rage. 

In  1676,  when  they  were  ten,  Andrew  employed  for  them  a  new  tutor 
named  Henry  Burlingame  III— a  wiry,  brown-eyed,  swarthy  youth  in  his 
early  twenties,  energetic,  intense,  and  not  at  all  unhandsome.  This 
Burlingame  had  for  reasons  unexplained  not  completed  his  baccalaureate; 
yet  for  the  range  and  depth  of  his  erudition  and  abilities  he  was  little  short 
of  an  Aristotle.  Andrew  had  found  him  in  London  unemployed  and  un- 
dernourished, and,  always  a  good  businessman,  was  thus  for  a  miserly  fee 
able  to  provide  his  children  with  a  tutor  who  could  sing  the  tenor  in  a 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  IJ  ] 

Gesualdo  madrigal  as  easily  as  he  dissected  a  field-mouse  or  conjugated  dp.L 
The  twins  took  an  immediate  liking  to  him,  and  he  in  turn,  after  only  a 
few  weeks,  grew  so  attached  to  them  that  he  was  overjoyed  when  Andrew 
permitted  him,  at  no  increase  in  salary,  to  convert  the  little  summer-pavilion 
on  the  grounds  of  the  St.  Giles  estate  into  a  combination  laboratory  and 
living-quarters,  and  devote  his  entire  attention  to  his  charges. 

He  found  both  to  be  rapid  learners,  especially  apt  in  natural  philosophy, 
literature,  composition,  and  music;  less  so  in  languages,  mathematics,  and 
history.  He  even  taught  them  how  to  dance,  though  Ebenezer  by  age 
twelve  was  already  too  ungainly  to  do  it  well  and  took  small  pleasure  in 
it.  First  he  would  teach  Ebenezer  to  play  the  melody  on  the  harpsichord; 
then  he  would  drill  Anna  in  the  steps,  to  Ebenezer's  accompaniment, 
until  she  mastered  them;  next  he  would  take  Ebenezer's  place  at  the 
instrument  so  that  Anna  could  teach  her  brother  the  steps;  and  finally, 
when  the  dance  was  learned,  Ebenezer  would  help  Anna  master  the  tune  on 
the  harpsichord.  Aside  from  its  obvious  efficiency,  this  system  was  in  keeping 
with  the  second  of  Master  Burlingame's  three  principles  of  pedagogy;  to 
wit,  that  one  learns  a  thing  best  by  teaching  it.  The  first  was  that  of  the  three 
usual  motives  for  learning  things— necessity,  ambition,  and  curiosity — 
simple  curiosity  was  the  worthiest  of  development,  it  being  the  "purest" 
(in  that  the  value  of  what  it  drives  us  to  learn  is  terminal  rather  than 
instrumental) ,  the  most  conducive  to  exhaustive  and  continuing  rather  than 
cursory  or  limited  study,  and  the  likeliest  to  render  pleasant  the  labor  of 
learning.  The  third  principle,  closely  related  to  the  others,  was  that  this 
sport  of  teaching  and  learning  should  never  become  associated  with 
certain  hours  or  particular  places,  lest  student  and  teacher  alike  (and  in 
Burlingame's  system  they  were  very  much  alike)  fall  into  the  vulgar  habit 
of  turning  off  their  alertness,,  as  it  were,  except  at  those  times  and  in  those 
places,  and  thus  make  by  implication  a  pernicious  distinction  between 
learning  and  other  sorts  of  natural  human  behavior. 

The  twins'  education,  then,  went  on  from  morning  till  night.  Burlin- 
game  joined  readily  in  their  play-acting,  and  had  he  dared  ask  leave  would 
have  slept  with  them  as  well,  to  guide  their  word-games.  If  his  system 
lacked  the  discipline  of  John  Locke's,  who  would  have  all  students  soak 
their  feet  in  cold  water,  it  was  a  good  deal  more  fun:  Ebenezer  and  Anna 
loved  their  teacher,  and  the  three  were  inseparable  companions.  To 
teach  them  history  he  directed  their  play-acting  to  historical  events: 
Ebenezer  would  be  Little  John,  perhaps,  and  Anna  Friar  Tuck,  or  Anna 
St.  Ursula  and  Ebenezer  the  Fifty  Thousand  Virgins;  to  sustain  their 


[  l8  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

interest  in  geography  he  produced  volumes  of  exotic  pictures  and  tales  of 
adventure;  to  sharpen  their  logical  equipment  he  ran  them  through  Zeno's 
paradoxes  as  one  would  ask  riddles,  and  rehearsed  them  in  Descartes's 
skepticism  as  gaily  as  though  the  search  for  truth  and  value  in  the  universe 
were  a  game  of  Who's  Got  the  Button.  He  taught  them  to  wonder  at 
a  leaf  of  thyme,  a  line  of  Palestrina,  the  configuration  of  Cassiopeia,  the 
scales  of  a  pilchard,  the  sound  of  indefatigable,  the  elegance  of  a  sorites. 

The  result  of  this  education  was  that  the  twins  grew  quite  enamored  of 
the  world— especially  Ebenezer,  for  Anna,  from  about  her  thirteenth 
birthday,  began  to  grow  more  demure  and  less  demonstrative.  But  Ebenezer 
could  be  moved  to  shivers  by  the  swoop  of  a  barn-swallow,  to  cries  of 
laughter  at  the  lace  of  a  cobweb  or  the  roar  of  an  organ's  pedal-notes,  and 
to  sudden  tears  by  the  wit  of  Volpone,  the  tension  of  a  violin-box,  or 
the  truth  of  the  Pythagorean  Theorem.  By  age  eighteen  he  had  reached 
his  full  height  and  ungainliness;  he  was  a  nervous,  clumsy  youth  who,  though 
by  this  time  he  far  excelled  his  sister  in  imaginativeness,  was  much  her 
inferior  in  physical  beauty,  for  though  as  twins  they  shared  nearly  identical 
features,  Nature  saw  fit,  by  subtle  alterations,  to  turn  Anna  into  a  lovely 
young  woman  and  Ebenezer  into  a  goggling  scarecrow,  just  as  a  clever 
author  may,  by  the  most  delicate  adjustments,  make  a  ridiculous  parody  of 
a  beautiful  style. 

It  is  a  pity  that  Burlingame  could  not  accompany  Ebenezer  when,  at 
eighteen,  the  boy  made  ready  to  matriculate  at  Cambridge,  for  though  a 
good  teacher  will  teach  well  regardless  of  the  pedagogical  theory  he  suffers 
from,  and  though  Burlingame's  might  seem  to  have  been  an  unusually 
attractive  one,  yet  there  is  no  perfect  educational  system,  and  it  must  be 
admitted  that  at  least  partly  because  of  his  tutoring  Ebenezer  took  quite 
the  same  sort  of  pleasure  in  history  as  in  Greek  mythology  and  epic  poetry, 
and  made  little  or  no  distinction  between,  say,  the  geography  of  the  atlases 
and  that  of  fairy-stories.  In  short,  because  learning  had  been  for  him  such 
a  pleasant  game,  he  could  not  regard  the  facts  of  zoology  or  the  Norman 
Conquest,  for  example,  with  any  genuine  seriousness^  nor  could  he  dis- 
cipline himself  to  long  labor  at  tedious  tasks.  Even  his  great  imagination 
and  enthusiasm  for  the  world  were  not  unalloyed  virtues  when  combined 
with  his  gay  irresolution,  for  though  they  led  him  to  a  great  sense  of  the 
arbitrariness  of  the  particular  real  world,  they  did  not  endow  him  with  a 
corresponding  realization  of  its  finality.  He  very  well  knew,  for  instance, 
that  "France  is  shaped  like  a  teapot,"  but  he  could  scarcely  accept  the 
fact  that  there  was  actually  in  existence  at  that  instant  such  a  place 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [19] 

as  France,  where  people  were  speaking  French  and  eating  snails  whether 
he  thought  about  them  or  not,  and  that  despite  the  virtual  infinitude 
of  imaginable  shapes,  this  France  would  have  to  go  on  resembling  a 
teapot  forever.  And  again,  though  the  whole  business  of  Greece  and  Rome 
was  unquestionably  delightful,  he  found  the  notion  preposterous,  almost 
unthinkable,  that  this  was  the  only  way  it  happened:  that  made  him 
nervous  and  irritable,  when  he  thought  of  it  at  all. 

Perhaps  with  continued  guidance  from  his  tutor  he  could  in  time  have 
overcome  these  failings,  but  one  morning  in  July  of  1684  Andrew  simply 
announced  at  breakfast,  "No  need  to  go  to  the  summer-house  today, 
Ebenezer.  Thy  lessons  are  done/' 

Both  children  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"Do  you  mean,  sir,  that  Henry  will  be  leaving  us?"  Ebenezer  asked. 

"I  do  indeed,"  Andrew  replied.  "In  fact,  if  I  be  not  greatly  in  error  he 
hath  already  departed." 

"But  how  is  that?  With  never  a  fare-thee-well?  He  spoke  not  a  word  of 
leaving  us!" 

"Gently,  now,"  said  Andrew.  "Will  ye  weep  for  a  mere  schoolmaster? 
'Twas  this  week  or  the  next,  was't  not?  Thou'rt  done  with  him." 

"Did  you  know  aught  oft?"  Ebenezer  demanded  of  Anna.  She  shook 
her  head  and  fled  from  the  room.  "You  ordered  him  off,  Father?"  he  asked 
incredulously.  "Why  such  suddenness?" 

"  'Dslife!"  cried  Andrew.  "At  your  age  I'd  sooner  have  drunk  him  good 
riddance  than  raised  such  a  bother!  The  fellow's  work  was  done  and  I 
sacked  him,  and  there's  an  end  on't!  If  he  saw  fit  to  leave  at  once  'tis  his 
affair.  I  must  say  'twas  a  more  manly  thing  than  all  this  hue  and  cry!" 

Ebenezer  went  at  once  to  the  summer-pavilion.  Almost  everything  was 
there  exactly  as  it  had  been  before:  a  half-dissected  frog  lay  pinned  out 
upon  its  beech-board  on  the  work-table;  books  and  papers  were  spread  open 
on  the  writing-desk;  even  the  teapot  stood  half-full  on  the  grate.  But 
Burlingame  was  indeed  gone.  While  Ebenezer  was  looking  about  in 
disbelief  Anna  joined  him,  wiping  her  eyes. 

"Dear  Henry!"  Ebenezer  lamented,  his  own  eyes  brimming.  "  'Tis  like  a 
bolt  from  Heaven!  Whatever  shall  we  do  without  him?" 

Anna  made  no  reply,  but  ran  to  her  brother  and  embraced  him. 

For  this  reason  or  another,  then,  when  not  long  afterwards  Ebenezer 
bade  good-bye  to  his  father  and  Anna  and  established  himself  in  Magdalene 
College,  at  Cambridge,  he  proved  a  poor  student.  He  would  go  to  fetch 
Newton's  lectures  De  Motu  Corporum  from  the  library,  and  would 


[20]  THE   SOT-WEED   FACTOR 

spend  four  hours  reading  Esquemeling's  History  of  the  Buccaneers  instead, 
or  some  Latin  bestiary.  He  took  part  in  few  pranks  or  sports,  made  few 
friends,  and  went  virtually  unnoticed  by  his  professors. 

It  was  during  his  second  year  of  study  that,,  though  he  did  not  realize 
it  at  the  time,  he  was  sore  bit  by  the  muse's  gadfly.  Certainly  he  did  not 
at  the  time  think  of  himself  as  a  poet,  but  it  got  so  that  after  hearing  his 
teachers  argue  subtly  and  at  length  against,  say,  philosophical  materialism, 
he  would  leave  the  lecture-hall  with  no  more  in  his  notebook  than: 

Old  Plato  sow  both  Mind  and  Matter; 
Thomas  Hobbes,  naught  but  the  latter. 
Now  poor  Tom's  Soul  doth  fry  in  Hell: 
Shrugs  GOD, "  Tis  immaterial:' 

or: 

Source  of  Virtue,  Truth,  and  All  is 
Each  Man's  Lumen  Naturalis. 

As  might  be  expected,  the  more  this  divine  affliction  got  hold  of  him, 
the  more  his  studies  suffered.  The  sum  of  history  became  in  his  head  no 
more  than  the  stuff  of  metaphors.  Of  the  philosophers  of  his  era— Bacon, 
Hobbes,  Descartes,  Spinoza,  Leibnitz,  Locke— he  learned  little;  of  its 
scientists— Kepler,  Galileo,  Newton— less;  of  its  theologians— Lord  Her- 
bert, Cudworth,  More,  Smith,  Glanvill— nothing.  But  Paradise  Lost  he 
knew  inside  out;  Hudibras  upside  down.  At  the  end  of  the  third  year,  to  his 
great  distress,  he  failed  a  number  of  examinations  and  had  to  face  the 
prospect  of  leaving  the  University.  Yet  what  to  do?  He  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  returning  to  St.  Giles  and  telling  his  f ormidable  father,  he  would 
have  to  absent  himself  quietly,  disappear  from  sight,  and  seek  his  fortune 
in  the  world  at  large.  But  in  what  manner? 

Here,  in  his  difficulty  with  this  question,  the  profoundest  effects  of 
Burlingame's  amiable  pedagogy  become  discernible:  Ebenezefs  imagina- 
tion was  excited  by  every  person  he  met  either  in  or  out  of  books  who  could 
do  with  skill  and  understanding  anything  whatever;  he  was  moved  to  ready 
admiration  by  expert  falconers,  scholars,  masons,  chimneysweeps,  pros- 
titutes, admirals,  cutpurses,  sailmakers,  barmaids,  apothecaries,  and  can- 
noneers alike. 

Aft,  God,  he  wrote  in  a  letter  to  Anna  about  this  time,  it  were  an  easy 
Matter  to  choose  a  Calling,  had  one  all  Time  to  live  in!  I  should  be  fifty 
Years  a  Barrister,  fifty  a  Physician,  fifty  a  Clergyman,  -fifty  a  Soldier!  Aye, 
and  fifty  a  Thief,  and  fifty  a  Judge!  All  Roads  are  fine  Roads,  beloved 
Sister,  none  more  than  another,  so  that  with  one  Life  to  spend  lama  Man 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  21  ] 

bare-bumrrid  at  Taylors  with  Cash  for  but  one  pair  of  Breeches,  or  a 
Scholar  at  Bookstalls  with  Money  for  a  single  Book:  to  choose  ten  were  no 
Trouble;  to  choose  one,  impossible!  All  Trades,  all  Crafts,  all  Professions  are 
wondrous,  but  none  is  finer  than  the  rest  together.  I  cannot  choose,  sweet 
Anna:  twixt  Stools  my  Breech  falleth  to  the  Ground! 

He  was,  that  is  to  say,  temperamentally  disinclined  to  no  career,  and, 
what  is  worse  (as  were  this  not  predicament  enough ) ,  he  seemed  consistently 
no  special  sort  of  person:  the  variety  of  temperaments  and  characters  that 
he  observed  at  Cambridge  and  in  literature  was  as  enchanting  to  him  as  the 
variety  of  life-works,  and  as  hard  to  choose  from  among.  He  admired 
equally  the  sanguine,  the  phlegmatic,  the  choleric,  the  melancholic,  the 
splenetic,  and  the  balanced  man,  the  fool  and  the  sage,  the  enthusiast  and 
the  stick-in-the-mud,  the  talkative  and  the  taciturn,  and,  most  dilemmal  of 
all,  the  consistent  and  the  inconsistent.  Similarly,  it  seemed  to  him  as  fine 
a  thing  to  be  fat  as  to  be  lean,  to  be  short  as  tall,  homely  as  handsome. 
To  complete  his  quandary— what  is  probably  an  effect  of  the  foregoing— 
Ebenezer  could  be  persuaded,  at  least  notionally,  by  any  philosophy  of  the 
world,  even  by  any  strongly  held  opinion,  which  was  either  poetically 
conceived  or  attractively  stated,,  since  he  appeared  to  be  emotionally 
predisposed  in  favor  of  none.  It  was  as  pretty  a  notion  to  him  that  the 
world  was  made  of  water,  as  Thales  declared,  as  that  it  was  air,  i  la 
Anaximines,  or  fire,  &  la  Heraclitus,  or  all  three  and  dirt  to  boot,  as  swore 
Empedocles;  that  all  was  matter,  as  Hobbes  maintained,  or  that  all  was 
mind,  as  some  of  Locke's  followers  were  avowing,  seemed  equally  likely  to 
our  poet,  and  as  for  ethics,  could  he  have  been  all  three  and  not  just  one 
he'd  have  enjoyed  dying  once  a  saint,  once  a  frightful  sinner,  and  once 
lukewarm  between  the  two. 

The  man  (in  short),  thanks  both  to  Burlingame  and  to  his  natural  pro- 
clivities, was  dizzy  with  the  beauty  of  the  possible;  dazzled,  he  threw  up 
his  hands  at  choice,  and  like  ungainly  flotsam  rode  half-content  the  tide  of 
chance.  Though  the  term  was  done  he  stayed  on  at  Cambridge.  For  a  week 
he  simply  languished  in  his  rooms,  reading  distractedly  and  smoking  pipe 
after  pipe  of  tobacco,  to  which  he'd  become  addicted.  At  length  reading 
became  impossible;  smoking  too  great  a  bother:  he  prowled  restlessly  about 
the  room.  His  head  always  felt  about  to  ache,  but  never  began  to. 

Finally  one  day  he  did  not  deign  even  to  dress  himself  or  eat,  but  sat 
immobile  in  the  window  seat  in  his  nightshirt  and  stared  at  the  activity  in 
the  street  below,  unable  to  choose  a  motion  at  all  even  when,  some  hours 
later,  his  untutored  bladder  suggested  one. 


<*§   ?:    EBENEZER  IS  RESCUED,  AND  HEARS  A  DIVERTING 
TALE  INVOLVING  ISAAC  NEWTON  AND  OTHER 
NOTABLES 


LUCKILY  FOR  HIM  (ELSE  HE  MIGHT  HAVE  MOSSED  OVER  WHERE  HE  SAl), 

Ebenezer  was  roused  from  his  remarkable  trance  shortly  after  dinnertime 
by  a  sudden  great  commotion  at  his  door. 

"Eben!  Eben!  Prithee  admit  me  quicldy!" 

"Who  is  it?"  called  Ebenezer,  and  jumped  up  in  alarm:  he  had  no  friends 
at  the  College  who  might  be  calling  on  him, 

"Open  and  see,"  the  visitor  laughed.  "Only  hurry,  I  beg  of  thee!" 

"Do  but  wait  a  minute.  I  must  dress." 

"What?  Not  dressed?  'Swounds,  what  an  idle  fellow!  No  matter,  boy; 
let  me  in  at  once!" 

Ebenezer  recognized  the  voice,  which  he'd  not  heard  for  three  years. 
"Henry!"  he  cried,  and  threw  open  the  door. 

"Tis  no  other,"  laughed  Burlingame,  giving  him  a  squeeze.  "Marry, 
what  a  lout  thou'rt  grown  to!  A  good  six  feet!  And  abed  at  this  hour!"  He 
felt  the  young  man's  forehead.  "Yet  you've  no  fever.  What  ails  thee,  lad? 

Ah  well,  no  matter.  One  moment "  He  ran  to  the  window  and  peered 

cautiously  below.  "Ah,  there's  the  rascal!  Hither,  Eben!" 

Ebenezer  hurried  to  the  window.  "Whatever  is't?" 

"Yonder,  yonder!"  Burlingame  pointed  up  the  street.  "Coming  by  the 
little  dram-shop!  Know  you  that  gentleman  with  the  hickory-stick?" 

Ebenezer  saw  a  long-faced  man  of  middle  age,  gowned  as  a  don,  making 
his  way  down  the  street. 

"Nay,  'tis  no  Magdalene  Fellow.  The  face  is  strange/' 

"Shame  on  thee,  then,  and  mark  it  well.  'Tis  Isa^c  himself,  from 
Trinity." 

"Newton!"  Ebenezer  looked  with  sharper  interest.  "I've  not  seen  him 
before,  but  word  hath  it  the  Royal  Society  is  bringing  out  a  book  of  his 
within  the  month  that  will  explain  the  workings  of  the  entire  universe! 
Ffaith,  I  thank  you  for  your  haste!  But  did  I  hear  you  call  him  rased?" 

Burlingame  laughed  again,  "You  mistake  the  reason  for  my  haste,  Eben. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [23] 

I  pray  God  my  face  hath  altered  these  fifteen  years,  for  I'm  certain  Brother 
Isaac  caught  sight  of  me  ere  I  reached  your  entryway." 

"Is7t  possible  you  know  him?"  asked  Ebenezer,  much  impressed. 

"Know  him?  I  was  once  near  raped  by  him.  Stay!"  He  drew  back  from 
the  window.  "Keep  an  eye  on  him,  and  tell  me  how  I  might  escape  should 
he  turn  in  at  your  door." 

"No  difficulty:  the  door  of  this  chamber  lets  onto  an  open  stairway  in 
the  rear.  What  in  Heav'n's  afoot,  Henry?" 

"Don't  be  alarmed/'  Burlingame  said.  "  Tis  a  pretty  story,  and  I'll  tell 
it  all  presently.  Is  he  coming?" 

"One  moment— he's  just  across  from  us.  There.  Nay,  wait  now— he  is 
saluting  another  don.  Old  Bagley,  the  Latinist.  There,  now,  he's  moving  on." 

Burlingame  came  to  the  window,  and  the  two  of  them  watched  the  great 
man  continue  up  the  street. 

"Not  another  moment,  Henry,"  Ebenezer  declared.  "Tell  me  at  once 
what  mystery  is  behind  this  hide-and-seek,  and  behind  thy  cruel  haste  to 
leave  us  three  years  past,  or  watch  me  perish  of  curiosity!" 

"Aye  and  I  shall,"  Burlingame  replied,  "directly  you  dress  yourself,  lead 
us  to  food  and  drink,  and  give  full  account  of  yourself.  'Tis  not  I  alone 
who  have  excuses  to  find." 

"How!  Then  you  know  of  my  failure?" 

"Aye,  and  came  to  see  what's  what,  and  perchance  to  birch  some  sense 
into  you." 

"But  how  can  that  be?  I  told  none  but  Anna." 

"Stay,  you'll  hear  all,  I  swear't.  But  not  a  word  till  I've  a  spread  of 
sack  and  mutton.  Let  not  excitement  twist  thy  values,  lad— come  on  with 
you!" 

"Ah,  bless  you,  thou'rt  an  Iliad  Greek,  Henry,"  Ebenezer  said,  and 
commenced  dressing. 

They  went  to  an  inn  nearby,  where  over  small  beer  after  dinner 
Ebenezer  explained,  as  best  he  could,  his  failure  at  the  College  and 
subsequent  indecisions.  "The  heart  oft  seems  to  be,"  he  concluded,  "that 
in  no  matter  of  import  can  I  make  up  by  mind.  The  moment  I  grow  sensible 
that  I  must  choose,  I  see  such  virtues  in  each  alternative  that  none  outshines 
the  rest.  Marry,  Henry,  how  I've  needed  thy  counsell  What  agonies  you 
might  have  saved  me!" 

"Nay,"  Burlingame  protested.  "You  well  know  I  love  you,  Eben,  and 
feel  your  afflictions  as  my  own.  But  advice,  I  swear't,  is  the  wrong  medicine 
for  your  malady,  for  two  reasons:  first,  the  logic  of  the  problem  is  such 


[24]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

that  at  some  remove  or  other  you'd  have  still  to  choose,  inasmuch  as  should 
I  counsel  you  to  come  with  me  to  London,  you  yet  must  choose  whether  to 
follow  my  counsel;  and  should  I  farther  counsel  you  to  follow  my  first 
counsel,  you  must  yet  choose  to  follow  my  second— the  regress  is  infinite 
and  goes  nowhere.  Second,  e'en  could  you  choose  to  follow  my  counsel, 
'tis  no  cure  at  all,  but  a  mere  crutch  to  lean  upon.  The  object  is  to  put  you 
on  your  feet,  not  to  take  you  off  them.  Tis  a  serious  affair,  Eben;  it  troubles 
me.  What  are  your  own  sentiments  about  your  failure?" 

"I  must  own  I  have  none/'  Ebenezer  said,  "though  I  can  fancy  many/' 

"And  this  indecision:  how  do  you  feel  about  yourself?" 

"Marry,  I  know  not!  I  suppose  I'm  merely  curious." 

Burlingame  frowned  and  called  for  a  pipe  of  tobacco  from  a  wine- 
drawer  working  near  at  hand.  "You  were  indeed  the  picture  of  apathy 
when  I  found  you.  Doth  it  not  gall  or  grieve  you  to  lose  the  baccalaureate, 
when  you'd  approached  so  near  it?" 

"In  a  manner,  I  suppose,"  Ebenezer  smiled.  "And  yet  the  man  I  most 
respect  hath  got  on  without  it,  hath  he  not?" 

Burlingame  laughed.  "My  dear  fellow,  I  see  'tis  time  I  told  you  many 
things.  Will  it  comfort  you  to  learn  that  I,  too,  suffer  from  your  disease,  and 
have  since  childhood?" 

"Nay,  that  cannot  be,"  Ebenezer  said.  "Ne'er  have  I  seen  thee  falter, 
Henry:  thou'rt  the  very  antithesis  of  indecision!  Tis  to  you  I  look  in  envy, 
and  despair  of  e'er  attaining  such  assurance." 

"Let  me  be  your  hope,  not  your  despair,  for  just  as  a  mild  siege  of 
smallpox,  though  it  scar  a  man's  face,  leaves  him  safe  forever  from  dying  of 
that  ailment,  so  inconstancy,  fickleness,  a  periodic  shifting  of  enthusiasms, 
though  a  vice,  may  preserve  a  man  from  crippling  indecision." 

"Fickleness,  Henry?"  Ebenezer  asked  in  wonderment.  "Is't  fickleness 
explains  your  leaving  us?" 

"Not  in  the  sense  you  take  it,"  Burlingame  said.  He  fetched  out  a  shilling 
and  called  for  two  more  tankards  of  beer.  "I  say,  did  you  know  I  was  an 
orphan  child?" 

"Why,  yes,"  Ebenezer  said,  surprised.  "Now  you  mention  it,  I  believe  I 

did  though  I  can't  recall  your  ever  telling  us.  Haply  we  just  assumed  it. 

taith  Henry,  all  the  years  we've  known  you,  and  yet  in  sooth  we  know 

naught  of  you,  do  we?  I've  no  idea  when  you  were  bom,  or  where  reared, 

or  by  whom." 

"Or  why  I  left  ycm  «,  discourteously,  or  how  I  learned  of  your 
failure,  or  why  I  fled  the  great  Mister  Newton,"  Burlingame  added.  "Very 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

well  then,  take  a  draught  with  me,  and  I  shall  uncloak  the  mystery-  There's 
a  good  fellow!" 

They  drank  deeply,  and  Burlingame  began  his  story. 

"I've  not  the  faintest  notion  where  I  was  born,  or  even  when— though  it 
must  have  been  about  1654.  Much  less  do  I  know  what  woman  bore  me, 
or  what  man  got  me  on  her.  I  was  raised  by  a  Bristol  sea-captain  and  his 
wife,  who  were  childless,  and  'tis  my  suspicion  I  was  born  in  either  America 
or  the  West  Indies,  for  my  earliest  memories  are  of  an  ocean  passage  when 
I  was  no  more  than  three  years  old.  Their  name  was  Salmon— Avery  and 
Melissa  Salmon." 

"I  am  astonished!"  Ebenezer  declared.  "I  ne'er  dreamed  aught  so 
extraordinary  of  your  beginnings!  How  came  you  to  be  called  Burlingame, 
then?" 

Burlingame  sighed.  "Ah,  Eben,  just  as  till  now  you've  been  incurious 
about  my  origin,  so  till  too  late  was  I.  Burlingame  I've  been  since  earliest 
memory,  and,  as  is  the  way  of  children,  it  ne'er  occurred  to  me  to  wonder  at 
it,  albeit  to  this  day  I've  met  no  other  of  that  surname." 

"It  must  be  that  whomever  Captain  Salmon  received  you  from  was  your 
parent!"  Ebenezer  said.  "Or  haply  'twas  some  kin  of  yours,  that  knew  your 
name." 

"Dear  Eben,  think  you  I've  not  racked  myself  upon  that  chance?  Think 
you  I'd  not  forfeit  a  hand  for  five  minutes'  converse  with  my  poor 
Captain,  or  gentle  Melissa?  But  I  must  put  by  my  curiosity  till  Judgment 
Day,  for  they  both  are  in  their  graves." 

"Unlucky  fellow!" 

"All  through  my  childhood,"  Burlingame  went  on,  "  'twas  my  single  aim 
to  go  to  sea,  like  Captain  Salmon.  Boats  were  my  only  toys;  sailors  my  only 
playmates.  On  my  thirteenth  birthday  I  shipped  as  messboy  on  the 
Captain's  vessel,  a  West  Indiaman,  and  so  taken  was  I  by  the  mariner's  life 
that  I  threw  my  heart  and  soul  into  my  apprenticeship.  Ere  we  raised 
Barbados  I  was  scrambling  aloft  with  the  best  of  'em,  to  take  in  a  stuns'l  or 
tar  the  standing  rigging,  and  was  as  handy  with  a  fid  as  any  Jack  aboard. 
Eben,  Eben,  what  a  life  for  a  lad— e'en  now  it  shivers  me  to  think  on't! 
Brown  as  a  coffee-bean  I  was,  and  agile  as  a  monkey,  and  ere  my  voice  had 
left  off  changing,  ere  my  parts  were  fully  haired— at  an  age  when  most  boys 
have  still  the  smell  of  the  womb  on  'em,  and  dream  of  traveling  to  the 
neighboring  shire— I  had  dived  for  sheepswool  sponges  on  the  Great 
Bahaman  Banks  and  fought  with  pirates  in  the  Gulf  of  Paria.  What's  more, 
after  guarding  my  innocence  in  the  fo'c'sle  with  a  fishknife  from  a  lecherous 


[26]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

old  Manxman  who'd  offered  two  pounds  for't,  I  swam  a  mile  through 
shark-water  from  our  mooring  off  Curasao  to  squander  it  one  August  night 
with  a  mulatto  girl  upon  the  beach.  She  was  scarce  thirteen,  Eben— half 
Dutch,  half  Indian,  lissome  and  trembly  as  an  eight-month  colt— but  on 
receipt  of  a  little  brass  spyglass  of  mine,  which  she'd  taken  a  great  'fancy 
to  in  the  village  that  morning,  she  fetched  up  her  skirts  with  a  laugh,  and 
I  deflowered  her  under  the  sour-orange  trees.  I  was  not  yet  fifteen." 

"Gramercy!" 

"No  man  e'er  loved  his  trade  more  than  I,"  Burlingame  continued,  "nor 
slaved  at  it  more  diligently;  I  was  the  apple  of  the  Captain's  eye,  and  would, 
I  think,,  have  risen  fast  through  the  ranks." 

"Then  out  on't,  Henry,  how  is't  you  claim  my  failing?  For  I  see  naught 
in  thy  tale  here  but  a  staggering  industry  and  singlemindedness,  the  half  of 
which  Fd  lose  an  ear  to  equal." 

Burlingame  smiled  and  drank  off  the  last  of  his  beer.  "Inconstancy,  dear 
fellow,  inconstancy.  That  same  singlemindedness  that  raised  me  o'er  the 
other  lads  on  the  ship  was  the  ruin  of  my  nautical  career." 

"How  can  that  be?" 

"I  made  five  voyages  in  all,"  Burlingame  said.  "On  the  fifth— the  same 
voyage  on  which  I  lost  my  virginity— we  lay  becalmed  one  day  in  the  horse 
latitudes  off  the  Canary  Islands,  and  quite  by  chance,  looking  about  for 
something  wherewith  to  occupy  myself,  I  happened  on  a  copy  of  Motteux's 
Don  Quixote  among  a  shipmate's  effects;  I  spent  the  remainder  of  the 
day  with  it,  for  though  Mother  Salmon  had  taught  me  to  read  and  write, 
'twas  the  first  real  storybook  I'd  read.  I  grew  so  entranced  by  the  great 
Manchegan  and  his  faithful  squire  as  to  lose  all  track  of  time  and  was 
rebuked  by  Captain  Salmon  for  reporting  late  to  the  cook. 

"From  that  day  on  I  was  no  longer  a  seaman,  but  a  student.  I  read  every 
book  I  could  find  aboard  ship  and  in  port— bartered  my  clothes,  mortgaged 
my  pay  for  books,  on  any  subject  whatever,  and  reread  them  over  and  over 
when  no  new  ones  could  be  found.  All  else  went  by  the  board;  what  work  I 
could  be  made  to  do  I  did  distractedly,  and  in  careless  haste.  I  took  to 
hiding,  in  the  rope-locker  or  the  lazarette,  where  I  could  read  for  an  hour 
undisturbed  ere  I  was  found.  Finally  Captain  Salmon  could  tolerate  it  no 
more:  he  ordered  the  mate  to  confiscate  every  volume  aboard,  save  only 
the  charts,  the  ship's  log,  and  the  navigational  tables,  and  pitched  'em  to 
the  sharks  off  Port-au-Prince;  then  he  gave  me  such  a  hiding  for  my  sins 
that  my  poor  bum  tingled  a  fortnight  after,  and  forbade  me  e'er  to  read  a 
printed  page  aboard  his  vessel.  This  so  thwarted  and  aggrieved  me,  that  at 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  2J  ] 

the  next  port  (which  happened  to  be  Liverpool)  I  jumped  ship  and  left 
career  and  benefactor  forever,  with  not  a  thank-ye  nor  a  fare-thee-well  for 
the  people  who'd  fed  and  clothed  me  since  babyhood. 

"I  had  no  money  at  all,  and  for  food  only  a  great  piece  of  hard  cheese  I'd 
stolen  from  the  ship's  cook:  therefore  I  very  soon  commenced  to  starve. 
I  took  to  standing  on  streetcorners  and  singing  for  my  supper:  I  was  a  pretty 
lad  and  knew  many  a  song,  and  when  I  would  sing  What  Thing  is  Love? 
to  the  ladies,  or  A  Pretty  Duck  There  Was  to  the  gentlemen,  'twas  not 
often  they'd  pass  me  by  without  a  smile  and  tuppence.  At  length  a  band 
of  wandering  gypsies,  traveling  down  from  Scotland  to  London,  heard  me 
sing  and  invited  me  to  join  them,  and  so  for  the  next  year  I  worked  and 
lived  with  those  curious  people.  They  were  tinkers,  horse-traders,  fortune- 
tellers, basket-makers,  dancers,  troubadours,  and  thieves.  I  dressed  in  their 
fashion,  ate,  drank,  and  slept  with  them,  and  they  taught  me  all  their 
songs  and  tricks.  Dear  Eben!  Had  you  seen  me  then,  you'd  ne'er  have 
doubted  for  an  instant  I  was  one  of  them!" 

"I  am  speechless,"  Ebenezer  declared.  "Tis  the  grandest  adventure  I 
have  heard!" 

"We  worked  our  way  slowly,  with  many  digressions,  from  Liverpool 
through  Manchester,  Sheffield,  Nottingham,  Leicester,  and  Bedford,  sleep- 
ing in  the  wagons  when  it  rained  or  out  under  the  stars  on  fine  nights.  In 
the  troupe  of  thirty  souls  I  was  the  only  one  who  read  and  wrote,  and  so  was 
of  great  assistance  to  them  in  many  ways.  Once  to  their  great  delight  I 
read  them  tales  out  of  Boccaccio— they  all  love  to  tell  and  hear  stories— 
and  they  were  so  surprised  to  learn  that  books  contain  such  marvelous 
pleasantries,  a  thing  which  erst  they'd  not  suspected,  that  they  began  to 
steal  every  book  they  could  find  for  me:  I  seldom  lacked  reading  that  year! 
It  happened  one  day  they  turned  up  a  primer,  and  I  taught  the  lot  of  'em 
their  letters,  for  which  services  they  were  unimaginably  grateful.  Despite 
my  being  a  'gorgio'  (by  which  name  they  call  non-gypsies)  they  initiated 
me  into  their  most  privy  matters  and  expressed  the  greatest  desire  for  me  to 
marry  into  their  group  and  travel  with  them  forever. 

"But  late  in  1670  we  arrived  here  in  Cambridge,,  having  wandered  down 
from  Bedford,  The  students  and  several  of  the  dons  took  a  great  fancy 
to  us,  and  though  they  made  too  free  with  sundry  of  our  women,  they 
treated  us  most  cordially,  even  bringing  us  to  their  rooms  to  sing  and  play 
for  them.  Thus  were  my  eyes  first  opened  to  the  world  of  learning  and 
scholarship,  and  I  knew  on  the  instant  that  my  interlude  with  the  gypsies 
was  done.  I  resolved  to  go  no  farther:  I  bid  adieu  to  my  companions  and 


[28]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

remained  in  Cambridge,  determined  to  starve  upon  the  street-corners  rather 
than  leave  this  magnificent  place." 

"Marry,  Henry!"  Ebenezer  said.  "Thy  courage  brings  me  nigh  to  weep- 
ing! What  did  you  then?" 

"Why,  so  soon  as  my  belly  commenced  to  rumble  I  stopped  short  where 
I  was  (which  happened  to  be  over  by  Christ's  College)  and  broke  into 
Flow  My  Tears,  it  being  of  all  the  songs  I  knew  the  most  plaintive.  And 
when  I  had  done  with  the  last  verse  of  it— 

Hark!  yon  Shadows  that  in  Darkness  dwell, 
Learn  jo  contemn  Light. 
Happy,  happy  they  that  in  Hell 
Feel  not  the  World's  Despite. 

—when  I  had  done,  I  say,  there  appeared  at  a  nearby  window  a  lean  frown- 
ing don,  who  enquired  of  me, 'What  manner  of  Cainite  was  I,  that  I 
counted  them  happy  who  must  fry  forever  in  the  fires  of  Hell?  And  another, 
who  came  to  the  window  beside  him,  a  fat  wight,  asked  me,  Did  I  not 
know  where  I  was?  To  which  I  answered,  'I  know  no  more,  good  masters, 
than  that  I  am  in  Cambridge  Town  and  like  to. perish  of  my  belly!'  Then 
the  first  don,  who  all  unbeknownst  to  me  was  having  a  merry  time  at  my 
expense,  told  me  I  was  in  Christ's  College,  and  that  he  and  all  his  fellows 
were  powerful  divines,  and  that  for  lesser  blasphemies  than  mine  they  had 
caused  men  to  be  broke  upon  the  wheel.  I  was  a  mere  sixteen  then,  and 
not  a  little  alarmed,  for  though  I'd  read  enough  scarce  to  credit  their  story, 
yet  I  knew  not  but  what  they  could  work  me  some  injury  or  other,  e'en 
were't  something  short  of  the  wheel.  Therefore  I  humbly  craved  their  par- 
don, and  pled  'twas  but  an  idle  song,  the  words  of  which  I  scarce  attended; 
so  that  were  there  aught  of  blasphemy  in't,  'twas  not  the  singer  should 
be  racked  for't  but  the  author,  John  Dowland,  who  being  long  since  dead, 
must  needs  already  have  had  the  sin  rendered  out  of  him  in  Satan's  try- 
works,  and  there's  an  end  on't!  At  this  methinks  the  merry  dons  had  like 
to  laugh  aloud,  but  they  put  on  sterner  faces  yet  and  ordered  me  into  their 
chamber.  There  they  farther  chastised  me,  maintaining  that  while  my  first 
offense  had  been  grievous  enough,  in  its  diminution  of  the  torments  of 
Hell,  this'last  remark  of  mine  had  on't  the  very  smell  of  the  stake.  'How 
is  that?'  I  asked  them.  'Why,'  the  lean  one  cried,  'to  hold  as  you  do  that 
they  who  perpetuate  another's  sin,  albeit  witlessly,  are  themselves  blameless, 
is  to  deny  the  doctrine  of  Original  Sin  itself,  for  who  are  Eve  and  Adam 
but  the  John  Dowlands  of  us  all,  whose  sinful  song  all  humankind  must 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  29  ] 

sing  willy-nilly  and  die  for't?'  'What  is  more/  the  fat  don  declared,  'in 
denying  the  mystery  of  Original  Sin  you  scorn  as  well  the  mystery  of 
Vicarious  Atonement— for  where's  the  sense  of  Salvation  for  them  that 
are  not  lost?' 

"  'Nay,  nay!'  said  I,  and  commenced  to  sniffling.  'Marry,  masters,  'twas 
but  an  idle  observation!  Prithee  take  no  notice  oft!' 

"'An  idle  observation!'  the  first  replied,,  and  laid  hold  of  my  arms. 
'Swounds,  boy!  You  scoff  at  the  two  cardinal  mysteries  of  the  Church, 
which  like  twin  pillars  bear  the  entire  edifice  of  Christendom;  you  as  much 
as  call  the  Crucifixion  a  vulgar  Mayfair  show;  and  to  top  all  you  regard 
such  unspeakable  blasphemies  as  idle  observations!  Tis  a  more  horrendous 
sin  yet!  Whence  came  thee  here,  anyhow?' 

"  'From  Bedford/  I  replied,  frightened  near  out  of  my  wits,  'with  a  band 
of  gypsies/  On  hearing  this  the  dons  feigned  consternation,  and  declared 
that  every  year  at  this  time  the  gypsies  passed  through  Cambridge  for  the 
sole  purpose,  since  they  are  heathen  to  a  man,  of  working  some  hurt  on 
the  divines.  Only  the  year  before,  they  said,  one  of  my  cohorts  had  sneaked 
privily  into  the  Trinity  brew-house  and  poisoned  a  vat  of  beer,  with  the 
result  that  three  Senior  Fellows,  four  Scholars,  and  a  brace  of  idle  Sizars 
were  done  to  death  ere  sundown.  Then  they  asked  me,  What  was  my 
design?  And  when  I  told  them  I  had  hoped  to  attach  myself  to  one  of 
their  number  as  a  serving-boy,'  the  better  to  improve  my  mind,  they  made 
out  I  was  come  to  poison  the  lot  of  'em.  So  saying,  they  stripped  me  naked 
on  the  spot,  despite  my  protestations  of  innocence,  and  on  pretext  of  seek- 
ing hidden  phials  of  vitriol  they  poked  and  probed  every  inch  of  my  person, 
and  pinched  and  tweaked  me  in  alarming  places.  Nay,  I  must  own  they 
laid  lecherous  hands  upon  me,  and  had  soon  done  me  a  violence  but  that 
their  sport  was  interrupted  by  another  don— an  aging,  saintlike  gentleman, 
clearly  their  superior— who  bade  them  stand  off  and  rebuked  them  for 
molesting  me.  I  flung  myself  at  his  feet,  and,  raising  me  up  and  looking 
at  me  from  top  to  toe,  he  enquired,  What  was  the  occasion  of  my  being 
disrobed?  I  replied,  I  had  but  sung  a  song  to  please  these  gentlemen, 
the  which  they  had  called  a  blasphemy,  and  had  then  so  diligently  searched 
me  for  phials  of  vitriol,  that  I  looked  to  be  costive  the  week  through. 

"The  old  don  then  commanded  me  to  sing  the  song  at  once,  that  he 
might  judge  of  its  blasphemy,  and  so  I  fetched  up  my  guitar,  which  the 
gypsies  had  taught  me  the  use  of,  and  as  best  I  could  (for  I  was  weeping 
and  shivering  with  fright)  I  once  again  sang  Flow  My  Tears.  Throughout 
the  piece  my  savior  smiled  on  me  sweetly  as  an  angel,  and  when  I  was 


[30]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

done  he  spoke  not  a  word  about  blasphemy,  but  kissed  me  upon  the  fore- 
head, bade  me  dress,  and  after  reproving  again  my  tormentors,  who  were 
mightily  ashamed  at  being  thus  surprised  in  their  evil  prank,  he  commanded 
me  to  go  with  him  to  his  quarters.  What's  more,  after  interrogating  me  at 
length  concerning  my  origin  and  my  plight,  and  expressing  surprise  and 
pleasure  at  the  extent  of  my  reading,  he  then  and  there  made  me  a  member 
of  his  household  staff,  to  serve  him  personally,  and  allowed  me  free  use  of 
his  admirable  library." 

"I  must  know  who  this  saintly  fellow  was,"  Ebenezer  interrupted.  "My 
curiosity  leaps  its  banks!" 

Burlingame  smiled  and  raised  a  finger.  "I  shall  tell  thee,  Eben;  but  not 
a  word  oft  must  you  repeat,  for  reasons  you'll  see  presently.  Whatever  his 
failings,  'twas  a  noble  turn  he  did  me,  and  I'd  not  see  his  name  besmirched 
by  any  man." 

"Never  fear,"  Ebenezer  assured  him.  "Twill  be  like  whispering  it  to 
thyself." 

"Very  well,  then.  I  shall  tell  thee  only  that  he  was  Platonist  to  the  ears, 
and  hated  Tom  Hobbes  as  he  hated  the  Devil,  and  was  withal  so  fixed 
on  things  of  the  spirit— on  essential  spissitude  and  indiscerptibility  and 
metaphysical  extension  and  the  like,  which  were  as  real  to  him  as  rocks 
and  cow-patties— that  he  scarce  lived  in  this  world  at  all  And  should  these 
be  still  not  sufficient  clues,  know  finally  that  he  was  at  that  time  much 
engrossed  in  a  grand  treatise  Against  the  materialist  philosophy,  which 
treatise  he  printed  the  following  year  under  the  title  Enchiridion  Meta- 
physicum" 

"  'Sheart!"  Ebenezer  whispered.  "My  dear  friend,  was't  Henry  More  him- 
self you  sang  for?  I  should  think  'twould  be  thy  boast,  not  an  embarrass- 
ment!" 

"Stay,  till  I  end  my  tale.  'Twas  in  sooth  great  More  himself  I  lived  with! 
None  knows  more  than  I  his  noble  character,  and  none  is  more  a  debtor 
to  his  generosity.  I  was  then  perhaps  seventeen:  I  tried  in  -every  way  I 
knew  to  be  a  model  of  intelligence,  good  manners,  and  industry,  and  ere 
long  the  old  fellow  would  allow  no  other  servant  near  him.  He  took  great 
pleasure  in  conversing  with  me,  at  first  about  my  adventures  at  sea  and 
with  the  gypsies,  but  later  on  matters  of  philosophy  and  theology,  with 
which  subjects  I  made  special  effort  to  acquaint  myself.  'Twas  plain  he'd 
conceived  a  great  liking  for  me." 

"Thou'rt  a  lucky  wight,  f  faith!"  Ebenezer  sighed. 

"Nay;  only  hear  me  out.  As  time  went  on  he  no  longer  addressed  me  as 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

'Dear  Henry/  or  'My  boy/  but  rather  'My  son/  and  'My  dear';  and  after 
that  'Dearest  thing/  and  finally  'Thingums/  'Precious  laddikins/  and  'Gypsy 
mine'  in  turn.  In  short,  as  I  soon  guessed,  his  affection  for  me  was  Athenian 
as  his  philosophy— -dare  I  tell  you  he  more  than  once  caressed  me,  and 
called  me  his  little  Alcibiades?" 

"I  am  amazed!"  said  Ebenezer.  "The  scoundrel  rescued  you  from  the 
other  blackguards,  merely  to  have  you  for  his  own  unnatural  lusts!" 

"Oh  la,  'twas  not  at  all  the  same  thing,  Eben.  The  others  were  men  in 
their  thirties,  full  to  bursting  (as  my  master  himself  put  it)  with  the  filth 
and  unclean  tinctures  of  corporeity.  More,  on  the  other  hand,  was  near 
sixty,  the  gentlest  of  souls,  and  scarce  realized  himself,  I  daresay,  the  char- 
acter of  his  passion:  I  had  no  fear  of  him  at  all.  And  here  I  must  confess, 
Eben,  I  did  a  shameful  thing:  so  intent  was  I  on  entering  the  University, 
that  instead  of  leaving  More's  service  as  soon  as  tact  would  permit,  I  lost 
no  opportunity  to  encourage  his  shameful  doting.  I  would  perch  on  the 
arm  of  his  chair  like  an  impudent  lass  and  read  over  his  shoulder,  or  cover 
his  eyes  for  a  tease,  or  spring  about  the  room  like  a  monkey,,  knowing  he 
admired  my  energy  and  grace.  Most  of  all  I  sang  and  played  on  my  guitar 
for  him:  many's  the  night — I  blush  to  tell  it!— when  I  would  let  him  come 
upon  me,  as  though  by  accident;  I  would  laugh  and  blush,  and  then  as  if 
to  make  a  lark  oft,  take  my  guitar  and  sing  FZoiv  My  Tears. 

"Need  I  say  the  poor  philosopher  was  simply  ravished?  His  passion  so 
took  governance  o'er  his  other  faculties,  he  grew  so  entirely  enamored  of 
me,  that  upon  my  granting  him  certain  trifling  favors,  which  I  knew  he'd 
long  coveted  but  scarce  hoped  for,  he  spent  nearly  all  his  meager  savings 
to  outfit  me  like  the  son  of  an  earl,  and  enrolled  me  in  Trinity  College." 

Here  Burlingame  lit  another  pipe,  and  sighed  in  remembrance. 

"I  was,  I  believe,  uncommonly  well-read  for  a  boy  my  age.  In  the  two 
years  with  More  I'd  mastered  Latin,  Greek,  and  Hebrew,  read  all  of  Plato, 
Tully,  Plotin,  and  divers  other  of  the  ancients,  and  at  least  perused  most 
of  the  standard  works  of  natural  philosophy.  My  benefactor  made  no  secret 
that  he  looked  for  me  to  become  as  notable  a  philosopher  as  Herbert  of 
Cherbury,  John  Smith,  or  himself— and  who  knows  but  what  I  might  have 
been,  had  things  turned  out  happily?  But  alas,  Eben,  that  same  shame- 
lessness  by  virtue  of  which  I  reached  my  goal  proved  my  undoing.  'Twas 
quite  poetic." 

"What  happened,  pray?" 

"I  was  not  strong  in  mathematics,"  Burlingame  said,  "and  for  that  reason 
I  devoted  much  of  my  study  to  that  subject,  and  spent  as  much  time  as 


t  32  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

I  could  with  mathematicians— especially  with  the  brilliant  young  man  who 
but  two  years  before,  in  1669,  had  taken  Barrow's  place  as  Lucasian  Pro- 
fessor of  Mathematics,  and  holds  the  office  yet.  .  .  ." 

"Newton!" 

"Aye,  the  wondrous  Isaac!  He  was  twenty-nine  or  thirty  then,  as  I  am 
now,  with  a  face  like  a  pure-bred  stallion's.  He  was  thin  and  strong  and 
marvelous  energetic,  much  given  to  moods;  he  had  the  arrogance  that  oft 
goes  with  great  gifts,  but  was  in  other  ways  quite  shy,  and  seldom  over- 
bearing. He  could  be  merciless  with  others'  theories,  yet  was  himself  in- 
ordinately sensitive  to  criticism.  He  was  so  diffident  about  his  talents  'twas 
with  great  reluctance  he  allowed  aught  of  his  discoveries  to  be  printed; 
yet  so  vain,  the  slightest  suggestion  that  someone  had  antedated  him  would 
drive  him  near  mad  with  rage  and  jealousy.  Impossible,  splendid  fellow!" 

"Marry,  he  frightens  me!"  Ebenezer  said. 

"Now  you  must  know  that  at  that  time  More  and  Newton  had  no  love 
whatever  for  each  other,  and  the  cause  of  their  enmity  was  the  French 
philosopher  Renatus  Descartes." 

"Descartes?  How  can  that  be?" 

"I  know  not  how  well  you've  heeded  your  tutors,"  Burlingame  said;  "you 
might  know  that  all  these  Platonical  gentleman  of  Christ's  and  Emmanuel 
Colleges  are  wont  to  sing  the  praises  of  Descartes,  inasmuch  as  he  makes 
a  great  show  of  pottering  about  in  mathematics  and  the  motions  of  heavenly 
bodies,  like  any  Galileo,  and  yet  unlike  Tom  Hobbes  he  affirms  the  real 
existence  of  God  and  the  soul,  which  pleases  them  no  end.  The  more  for 
that  the  lot  'em  are  Protestants:  this  much-vaunted  rejection  of  the  learning 
of  his  time,  that  Renatus  brags  of  in  his  Discourse  on  Method:  this  search- 
ing of  his  innards  for  his  axioms— is't  not  the  first  principle  of  Protestant- 
ism? Thus  it  is  that  Descartes'  system  is  taught  all  over  Cambridge,  and 
More,  like  the  rest,  praised  and  swore  by  him  as  by  a  latter-day  saint.  Tell 
me,  Eben:  how  is't,  d'you  think,  that  the  planets  are  moved  in  their 
courses?" 

"Why,"  said  Ebenezer,  "'tis  that  the  cosmos  is  filled  with  little  particles 
moving  in  vortices,  each  of  which  centers  on  a  star;  and  'tis  the  subtle  push 
and  pull  of  these  particles  in  our  solar  vortex  that  slides  the  planets  along 
their  orbs— is't  not?" 

"So  saith  Descartes,"  Burlingame  smiled.  "And  d'you  haply  recall  what 
is  the  nature  of  light?" 

"If  I  have't  right,"  replied  Ebenezer,  "'tis  an  aspect  of  the  vortices— 
of  the  press  of  inward  and  outward  forces  in  'em.  The  celestial  fire  is  sent 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  33  ] 

through  space  from  the  vortices  by  this  pressure,  which  imparts  a  transitional 
motion  to  little  light  globules " 

"Which  Renatus  kindly  hatched  for  that  occasion,"  Burlingame  inter- 
rupted. "And  what's  more  he  allows  his  globules  both  a  rectilinear  and  a 
rotatory  motion.  If  only  the  first  occurs  when  the  globules  smite  our  retinae, 
we  see  white  light;  if  both,  we  see  color.  And  as  if  this  were  not  magical 
enough— mirabile  dictul— when  the  rotatory  motion  surpasseth  the  rectilin- 
ear, we  see  blue;  when  the  reverse,  we  see  red;  and  when  the  twain  are 
equal,  we  see  yellow.  What  fantastical  drivel!" 

"You  mean  'tis  not  the  truth?  I  must  say,  Henry,  it  sounds  reasonable 
to  me.  In  sooth,  there  is  a  seed  of  poetry  in  it;  it  hath  an  elegance." 

"Aye,  it  hath  every  virtue  and  but  one  small  defect,,  which  is,  that  such 
is  not  the  case:  the  universe  doth  not  operate  in  that  wise.  Marry,  'tis  no 
crime,  methinks,  to  teach  the  man's  skeptical  philosophy  or  his  analytical 
geometry— both  have  much  of  merit  in  'em.  But  his  cosmology  is  purely 
fanciful,  his  optics  downright  bizarre;  and  the  first  man  to  prove  it  is 
Isaac  Newton." 

"Hence  their  enmity?"  asked  Ebenezer. 

Burlingame  nodded.  "By  the  time  Newton  became  Lucasian  Professor 
he  had  already  spoilt  Cartesian  optics  with  his  prism  experiments— and 
well  do  I  recall  them  from  his  lectures!— and  he  was  refuting  the  theory 
of  vortices  by  mathematics,  though  he  hadn't  as  yet  published  his  own 
cosmical  hypotheses.  But  his  loathing  for  Descartes  goes  deeper  yet:  it  hath 
its  origin  in  a  difference  betwixt  their  temperaments.  Descartes,  you  know, 
is  a  clever  writer,  and  hath  a  sort  of  genius  for  illustration  that  lends  force 
to  the  wildest  hypotheses.  He  is  a  great  hand  for  twisting  the  cosmos 
to  fit  his  theory.  Newton,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  patient  and  brilliant  ex- 
perimenter, with  a  sacred  regard  for  the  facts  of  nature.  Then  again,  since 
the  lectures  De  Motu  Corporum  and  his  papers  on  the  nature  of  light  have 
been  available,  the  man  always  held  up  to  him  by  his  critics  is  Descartes. 

"So,  then,  no  love  was  lost  'twixt  Newton  and  More;  they  had  in  fact 
been  quietly  hostile  to  each  other  for  some  years.  And  when  I  became  the 
focus  oft,  their  antagonism  boiled  over." 

"You?  But  you  were  a  simple  student,  were  you  not?  Surely  two  such 
giants  ne'er  would  stoop  to  fight  their  battles  with  their  students." 

"Must  I  draw  a  picture,  Eben?"  Burlingame  said.  "I  was  out  to  learn 
the  nature  of  the  universe  from  Newton,  but  knowing  I  was  More's  prot6g6, 
he  was  cold  and  incommunicative  with  me.  I  employed  every  strategy  I 
knew  to  remove  this  barrier,  and,  alas,  won  more  than  I'd  fought  for-— 


[  34  ]  1™  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

in  plain  English,  Eben,  Newton  grew  as  enamored  of  me  as  had  More, 
with  this  difference  only,  that  there  was  naught  Platonical  in  his  passion." 

"I  know  not  what  to  think!"  cried  Ebenezer. 

"Nor  did  I,"  said  Burlingame,  "albeit  one  thing  I  knew  well,  which  was 
that  save  for  the  impersonal  respect  I  bare  the  twain  of  'em,  I  cared  not 
a  fart  for  either.  Tis  a  wise  thing,  Eben,  not  to  confuse  one  affection  with 
another.  Well,  sir,  as  the  months  passed,  each  of  my  swains  came  to  realize 
the  passions  of  the  other,  and  both  grew  as  jealous  as  Cervantes'  Celoso 
Extremeno.  They  carried  on  shamefully,  and  each  threatened  my  ruination 
in  the  University  should  I  not  give  o'er  the  other.  As  for  me,  I  paid  no  more 
heed  than  necessary  to  either,  but  wallowed  in  the  libraries  of  the  colleges 
like  a  dolphin  in  the  surf.  Twas  job  enough  for  me  to  remember  to  eat 
and  sleep,  much  less  fulfill  the  million  little  obligations  they  thought  I 
owed  'em.  Ffaith,  a  handsome  pair!" 

"Prithee,  what  was  the  end  of  it?" 

Burlingame  sighed.  "I  played  the  one  against  the  other  for  above  two 
years,  till  at  last  Newton  could  endure  it  no  longer.  The  Royal  Society 
had  by  this  time  published  his  experiments  with  prisms  and  reflecting 
telescopes,  and  he  was  under  fire  from  Robert  Hooke,  who  had  light  theories 
of  his  own;  from  the  Dutchman  Christian  Huygens,  who  was  committed 
to  the  lens  telescope;  from  the  French  monk  Pardies;  and  from  the  Belgian 
Linus.  So  disturbed  was  he  by  the  conjunction  of  this  criticism  and  his 
jealousy,  that  in  one  and  the  same  day  he  swore  ne'er  to  publish  another 
of  his  discoveries,  and  confronted  More  in  the  latter's  chambers  with  the 
intent  of  challenging  him  to  settle  their  rivalry  for  good  and  all  by  means 
of  a  duel  to  the  death!" 

"Ah,  what  a  loss  to  the  world,  whatever  the  issue  oft!"  observed  Ebenezer. 

"As't  happened,  no  blood  was  let,"  Burlingame  said:  "the  tale  ends  hap- 
pily for  them  both,  if  not  for  the  teller.  After  much  discourse  Newton 
discovered  that  his  rival's  position  was  uncertain  as  his  own,  and  that  I 
seemed  equally  indifferent  to  both-which  conclusion,  insofar  as't  touches 
the  particular  matters  they  had  in  mind,  is  as  sound  as  any  in  the  Principia. 
In  addition  More  showed  to  Newton  his  Enchiridion  Metaphysicum, 
wherein  he  plainly  expressed  a  growing  disaffection  for  Descartes;  and  New- 
ton assured  More  that  albeit  'twas  universal  gravitation,  and  not  angels 
or  vortices,  that  steered  the  planets  in  their  orbits,  there  yet  remained 
employment  enough  for  the  Deity  as  a  first  cause  to  set  the  cosmic  wheels 
a-spin,  e'en  as  old  Renatus  had  declared.  In  fine>  so  far  from  dueling  to 
the  death,  they  so  convinced  each  other  that  at  the  end  of  some  hours  of 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  35  ] 

colloquy— all  of  which  I  missed,  being  then  engrossed  in  the  library— they 
fell  to  tearful  embraces,  and  decided  then  and  there  to  cut  me  off  without 
a  penny,  arrange  my  dismissal  from  the  College,  and  move  into  the  same 
lodgings,  where,  so  they  declared,  they  would  couple  the  splendors  of  the 
physical  world  to  the  glories  of  the  ideal,  and  listen  ravished  to  the  music 
of  the  spheres!  This  last  they  never  did  in  fact,  but  their  connection  endures 
to  this  day,  and  from  all  I  hear,  More  hath  washed  his  hands  entirely  of 
old  Descartes,  while  Newton  hath  caught  a  foolish  infatuation  with  theology, 
and  seeks  to  explain  the  Apocalypse  by  application  of  his  laws  of  series 
and  fluxions.  As  for  the  first  two  of  their  resolves,  they  fulfilled  'em  to  the 
letter— turned  me  out  to  starve,  and  so  influenced  all  and  sundry  against 
me  that  not  a  shilling  could  I  beg,  nor  eat  one  meal  on  credit.  'Twas  off 
to  London  I  went,  with  not  a  year  'twixt  me  and  the  baccalaureate.  Thus 
was  it,  in  1676,  upon  my  advertising  my  desire  for  employment,  that  your 
father  found  me;  and  playing  fickle  to  the  scholar's  muse,  I  turned  to  you 
and  your  dear  sister  all  the  zeal  I'd  erst  reserved  for  my  researches.  Your 
instruction  became  my  First  Good,  my  Primary  Cause,  which  lent  to  all 
else  its  form  and  order.  And  my  fickleness  is  thorough  and  entire:  not  for 
an  instant  have  I  regretted  the  way  of  my  life,  or  thought  wistfully  of 
Cambridge." 

"Dear,  dear  Henry!"  Ebenezer  cried.  "How  thy  tale  moves  me,  and 
shames  me,  that  I  let  slip  through  idleness  what  you  strove  so  hard  in  vain 
to  reach!  Would  God  I  had  another  chance!" 

"Nay,  Eben,  thou'rt  no  scholar,  I  fear.  You  have  perchance  the  school- 
man's love  of  lore,  but  not  the  patience,  not  the  address,  not  I  fear  that 
certain  nose  for  relevance,  that  grasp  of  the  world,  which  sets  apart  the 
thinker  from  the  crank.  There  is  a  thing  in  you,  a  set  of  the  grain  as  'twere, 
that  would  keep  you  ingenuous  even  if  all  the  books  in  all  the  libraries 
of  Europe  were  distilled  in  your  brain.  Nay,  let  the  baccalaureate  go;  I 
came  here  not  to  exhort  you  to  try  again,  or  to  chide  you  for  failing,  but 
to  take  you  with  me  to  London  for  a  time,  until  you  see  your  way  clearly. 
'Twas  Anna's  idea,  who  loves  you  more  than  herself,  and  I  think  it  wise." 

"Precious  Anna!  How  came  she  to  know  thy  whereabouts?" 

"There,  now,"  laughed  Burlingame,  "that  is  another  tale  entirely,  and 
'twill  do  for  another  time.  Come  with  me  to  London,  and  I'll  tell  it  thee 
in  the  carriage." 

Ebenezer  hesitated.  "  Tis  a  great  step." 

"'Tis  a  great  world  and  a  short  life!"  replied  Burlingame.  "A  pox  on 
all  steps  but  great  ones!" 


[  36  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"I  fear  me  what  Father  would  say,  did  he  hear  oft." 

"My  dear  fellow/'  Burlingame  said  caustically,  "we  sit  here  on  a  blind 
rock  careening  through  space;  we  are  all  of  us  rushing  headlong  to  the 
grave.  Think  you  the  worms  will  care,  when  anon  they  make  a  meal  of 
you,  whether  you  spent  your  moment  sighing  wigless  in  your  chamber, 
or  sacked  the  golden  towns  of  Montezuma?  Lookee,  the  day's  nigh  spent; 
'tis  gone  careening  into  time  forever.  Not  a  tale's  length  past  we  lined  our 
bowels  with  dinner,  and  already  they  growl  for  more.  We  are  dying  men, 
Ebenezer:  i'faith,  there's  time  for  naught  but  bold  resolves!" 

"You  lend  me  courage,  Henry,"  Ebenezer  said,  rising  from  the  table, 
"Let  us  begone." 


4:    EBENEZER'S  FIRST  SOJOURN  IN  LONDON,  AND 
THE  ISSUE  OF  IT 


BURLINGAME  SLEPT  THAT  NIGHT  IN  EBENEZERT$  ROOM,  AND  THE  NEXT 

day  they  left  Cambridge  for  London  by  carriage. 

"I  think  you've  not  yet  told  me,"  the  young  man  said  en  route,  "how 
it  is  you  left  St.  Giles  so  suddenly,  and  how  Anna  came  to  know  your 
whereabouts." 

Burlingame  sighed.  "'Tis  a  simple  mystery,  if  a  sad  one.  The  fact  is, 
Eben,  your  father  fancies  I  have  designs  upon  your  sister." 

"Nay!  Incredible!" 

"Ah,  now,  as  for  that,  'tis  not  so  incredible;  Anna  is  a  sweet  and  clever 
girl,  and  uncommon  lovely." 

^"Yet  think  of  your  ages!"  Ebenezer  said.  "'Tis  absurd  of  Father!" 

"Think  you  'tis  absurd?"  Burlingame  asked,  coloring  slightly.  "Thou'rt 
a  candid  fellow." 

"Ah,  forgive  me,"  Ebenezer  laughed;  "'twas  a  rude  remark.  Nay,  'tis 
not  Absurd  at  all:  thou'rt  but  thirty-odd,  and  Anna  twenty-one.  I  dare- 
say 'tis  that  you  were  our  teacher  made  me  think  of  you  as  older." 

"'Twere  no  absurd  suspicion,  methinks,  that  any  man  might  look  with 
love  on  Anna,"  Burlingame  declared,  "and  I  did  indeed  love  the  both  of 
you  for  years,  and  love  you  yet;  nor  did  I  ever  try  to  hide  the  fact.  Tis  not 
that  which  distresses  me;  'tis  Andrew's  notion  that  I  had  vicious  designs 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  37  ] 

on  the  girl.  'Sheart,  if  anything  be  improbable,  'tis  that  so  marvelous  a 
qreature  as  Anna  could  look  with  favor  on  a  penniless  pedagogue!" 

"Nay,  Henry,  I  have  oft  heard  her  protest,  that  by  comparison  to  you, 
none  of  her  acquaintances  was  worth  the  labor  of  being  civil  to." 

"Anna  said  that?" 

"Aye,  in  a  letter  not  two  months  past." 

"Ah  well,  whatever  the  case,  Andrew  took  my  regard  for  her  as  lewd 
intent,  and  threatened  me  one  afternoon  that  should  I  not  begone  ere 
morning  he'd  shoot  me  like  a  dog  and  horsewhip  dear  Anna  into  the 
bargain.  I  had  no  fear  for  myself,  but  not  to  risk  bringing  injury  to  her 
I  left  at  once,  albeit  it  tore  my  heart  to  go." 

Ebenezer  sat  amazed  at  this  revelation.  "How  she  wept  that  morning! 
and  yet  neither  she  nor  Father  told  me  aught  oft!" 

"Nor  must  you  speak  of  it  to  either,"  Burlingame  warned,  "for  'twould 
but  embarrass  Anna,  would  it  not?  And  anger  Andrew  afresh,  for  there's 
no  statute  of  limitations  within  a  family.  Think  not  you'll  reason  him  out 
of  his  notion:  he  is  convinced  of  it." 

"I  suppose  so,"  Ebenezer  said  doubtfully.  "Then  Anna  has  been  in  cor- 
respondence with  you  since?" 

"Not  so  regularly  as  I  could  wish.  Egad,  how  I've  yearned  for  news  of 
you!  I  took  lodgings  on  Thames  Street,  between  Billingsgate  and  the 
Customs-House— far  cry  from  the  summer-pavilion  at  St.  Giles,  you'll  see! 
—and  hired  myself  as  tutor  whenever  I  was  able,  in  order  to  eat,  though 
I've  had  no  pleasure  in  my  students.  For  two  years  and  more  I  was  unable 
to  communicate  with  Anna,  for  fear  your  father  would  hear  oft,  but  some 
months  ago  I  chanced  to  be  engaged  as  a  tutor  in  French  to  a  Miss  Bromly 
from  Plumtree  Street,  that  remembered  you  and  Anna  as  playmates  ere 
you  removed  to  St.  Giles.  Through  her  I  was  able  to  tell  Anna  where  I  live, 
and  though  I  dare  not  write  to  her,  she  hath  contrived  on  two  or  three 
occasions  to  send  me  letters.  Twas  thus  I  learned  the  state  of  your  affairs, 
and  I  was  but  too  pleased  to  act  on  her  suggestion  that  I  fetch  you  out 
of  Cambridge.  She  is  a  dear  gidr  Eben!" 

"I  long  to  see  her  again!"  Ebenezer  said. 

"And  I,"  said  Burlingame,  "for  I  esteem  her  as  highly  as  thee,  and  'tis 
three  years  since  I've  seen  her." 

"Think  you  she  might  visit  us  in  London?" 

"Nay,  I  fear  'tis  out  of  the  question.  Andrew  would  have  none  of  it." 

"Yet  surely  I  cannot  resign  myself  to  never  seeing  her  again!  Can  you, 
Henry?" 


[  38  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Tis  not  my  wont  to  look  that  far  ahead,"  Burlingame  said.  "Let  us 
consider  rather  how  you'll  occupy  yourself  in  London.  You  must  not  sit 
idle,  lest  you  slip  again  into  languishment  and  stupor/7 

"Alas,"  said  Ebenezer,  "I  cannot  decide  on  a  life  work;  I  have  no  long- 
term  goals  toward  which  to  labor." 

"Then  follow  my  example/'  advised  Burlingame,  "and  set  as  your  long- 
term  goal  the  successful  completion  of  all  your  short-term  goals.  Could  one 
wish  a  better?" 

"Yet  neither  have  I  any  short-term  goal." 

"Ah,  but  you  will  ere  long,  when  your  belly  growls  for  dinner  and  your 
money's  gone." 

"Unhappy  day!"  laughed  Ebenezer.  "I've  no  skill  in  any  craft  or  trade 
whatever.  I  cannot  even  play  Flow  My  Tears  on  the  guitar.  I  can  do  noth- 
ing/' 

"Then  'tis  plain  you'll  be  a  teacher,  like  myself." 

"'Sheart!  Twould  be  the  blind  leading  the  blind!" 

"Aye,*  smiled  Burlingame.  "Who  better  grasps  the  trials  of  sightlessness 
than  he  whose  eyes  are  gone?" 

"But  what  teach?  I  know  something  of  many  things,  and  enough  of 
naught." 

"I'faith,  then  the  field  is  open,  and  you  may  graze  where  you  list." 

"Teach  a  thing  I  know  naught  of?"  exclaimed  Ebenezer. 

"And  raise  thy  fee  for't,"  replied  Burlingame,  "inasmuch  as  'tis  no  chore 
to  teach  what  you  know,  but  to  teach  what  you  know  naught  of  requires  a 
certain  application.  Choose  a  thing  you'd  greatly  like  to  learn,  and  straight- 
way proclaim  yourself  professor  oft." 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head.  "Tis  still  impossible;  I  am  curious  about  the 
world  in  general,  and  ne'er  could  choose." 

'Very  well,  then:  I  dub  thee  Professor  of  the  Nature  of  the  World, 
and  as  such  shall  we  advertise  you.  Whate'er  your  students  wish  to  learn 
oft,  that  will  you  teach  them/' 

^Thou'rt  jesting,  Henry!" 

"Ift  be  a  jest,"  replied  Burlingame,  "'tis  a  happy  one,  I  swear,  for  just 
so  have  I  lined  my  belly  these  three  years.  B'm'faith,  the  things  Fve  taught! 
The  great  thing  is  always  to  be  teaching  something  to  someone— a  fig  for 
what  or  to  whom.  'Tis  no  trick  at  all." 

No  matter  what  Ebenezer  thought  of  this  proposal,  he  had  not  the 
wherewithal  to  reject  it:  immediately  on  arriving  in  London  he  moved  into 
Burlingame's  chambers  by  the  river  and  was  established  as  a  full  partner. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  39  ] 

A  few  days  after  that,  Burlingame  brought  him  his  first  customer— a  lout  of 
a  tailor  from  Crutched  Friars  who  happily  desired  to  be  taught  nothing 
more  intricate  than  his  A  B  Cs— and  for  the  next  few  months  Ebenezer 
earned  his  living  as  a  pedagogue.  He  worked  six  or  seven  hours  a  day, 
both  in  his  rooms  and  at  the  homes  of  his  students,  and  spent  most  of 
his  free  time  studying  desperately  for  the  following  day's  lessons.  What 
leisure  he  had  he  spent  in  the  taverns  and  coffee-houses  with  a  small  circle 
of  Burlingame's  acquaintances,  mostly  idle  poets.  Impressed  by  their  ap- 
parent confidence  in  their  talent,  he  too  endeavored  on  several  occasions 
to  write  poems,  but  abandoned  the  effort  each  time  for  want  of  anything 
to  write  about. 

At  his  insistence  a  devious  correspondence  was  established  with  his  sister 
through  Miss  Bromly,  Burlingame's  pupil,  and  after  two  months  Anna  con- 
trived to  visit  them  in  London,  using  as  excuse  the  illness  of  a  spinster 
aunt,  Andrew's  sister,  who  lived  near  Leadenhall.  The  twins  were,  as  may 
be  imagined,  overjoyed  to  see  each  other  again,  for  although  conversation 
did  not  come  so  readily  since  Ebenezer's  departure  from  St.  Giles  three 
years  before,  each  still  bore,  abstractly  at  least,  the  greatest  affection  and 
regard  for  the  other.  Burlingame,  too,  Anna  expressed  considerable  but 
properly  decorous  pleasure  in  seeing  again.  She  had  changed  somewhat 
since  Ebenezer  had  seen  her  last:  her  brown  hair  had  lost  something  of 
its  shine,  and  her  face,  while  still  fair,  was  leaner  and  less  girlish  than  he 
remembered  it. 

"My  dear  Anna!"  he  said  for  the  fourth  or  fifth  time.  "How  good  it  is 
to  hear  your  voice!  Tell  me,  how  did  you  leave  Father?  Is  he  well?" 

Anna  shook  her  head.  "Well  on  the  way  to  Bedlam,,  I  fear,  or  to  driving 
me  there.  Tis  your  disappearance,  Eben;  it  angers  and  frightens  him  at 
once.  He  knows  not  the  cause  oft,  or  whether  to  comb  the  realm  for  you 
or  disown  you.  A  dozen  times  daily  he  demands  of  me  whether  I  know 
aught  of  your  whereabouts,  or  else  rails  at  me  for  keeping  things  from  him. 
He  is  grown  hugely  suspicious  of  me,  and  yet  sometimes  asks  of  you  so 
plaintively  as  to  move  my  tears.  He  has  aged  much  these  past  weeks,  and 
though  he  blows  and  blusters  no  less  than  before,  his  heart  is  not  in  it, 
and  it  saps  his  strength." 

"Ah,  God,  it  pains  me  to  hear  that!" 

"And  me,"  said  Burlingame,  "for  though  old  Andrew  hath  small  love 
for  me,  I  wish  him  no  ill." 

"I  do  think,"  Anna  said  to  Ebenezer,  "that  you  should  strive  to  es- 
tablish yourself  in  some  calling,  and  communicate  with  him  directly  you 


[40]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

find  a  place;  for  despite  the  abuse  he'll  surely  heap  on  you,  'twill  ease  his 
soul  to  learn  thou'rt  well,  and  well  established." 

"And  'twould  ease  mine  to  ease  his/'  Ebenezer  said. 

"Marry,  and  yet  'tis  your  own  life!"  Burlingame  cried  impatiently.  "Fil- 
ial love  be  damned,  it.  galls  me  sore  to  see  the  pair  of  you  o'erawed  by  the 
pompous  rascal!" 

"Henry!"  Anna  chided. 

"You  must  pardon  me,"  Burlingame  said;  "I  mean  no  harm  by't.  But 
lookee,  Anna,  'tis  not  alone  Andrew's  health  that  suffers.  Thou'rt  peaked 
thyself,  and  wan,  and  I  mark  a  sobering  of  your  spirits.  You  too  should 
flee  St.  Giles  for  London,  as  your  aunt's  companion  or  the  like." 

"Am  I  wan  and  solemn?"  Anna  asked  gently.  "Haply  'tis  mere  age,,  Henry: 
one-and-twenty  is  no  more  a  careless  child.  But  prithee  ask  me  not  to  leave 
St.  Giles;  'tis  to  ask  Father's  death." 

"Or  belike  she  hath  a  suitor  there,"  Ebenezer  said  to  Burlingame.  "Is't 
not  so,  Anna?"  he  teased.  "Some  rustic  swain,  perchance,  that  hath  won 
your  heart?  One-and-twenty  is  no  child,  but  'twere  a  passing  good  wife, 
were't  not?  Say,  Henry,  see  the  girl  blush!  Methinks  I've  hit  on't!" 

"  'Twere  a  lucky  bumpkin,  b'm'faith,"  Burlingame  remarked. 

"Nay,"  said  Anna,  "twit  me  no  more  on't,  Brother,  I  pray  you." 

She  was  so  plainly  overwrought  that  Ebenezer  at  once  begged  her 
forgiveness  for  his  tease. 

Anna  kissed  his  cheek.  "How  shall  I  marry,  when  the  man  I  love  best 
hath  the  bad  sense  to  be  my  brother?  What  say  the  books  at  Cambridge, 
Eben?  Was  e'er  a  maid  less  lucky?" 

"Nay,  i'faith!"  laughed  Ebenezer.  "You'll  live  and  die  a  maiden  ere 
you  find  my  like!  Yet  I  commend  my  friend  here  to  your  attention,  who 
though  something  gone  in  years  yet  sings  a  creditable  tenor,  and  is  the 
devil's  own  good  fellow!" 

As  soon  as  he  spoke  it  Ebenezer  realized  the  tactlessness  of  his  remark 
in  the  light  of  what  Burlingame  had  told  him  weeks  before  of  Andrew's 
suspicions;  both  men  blushed  at  once,  but  Anna  saved  the  situation  by 
kissing  Burlingame  lightly  on  the  cheek  as  she  had  kissed  her  brother,  and 
saying  easily,  "'Twere  no  mean  catch,  if  you  speak  truly.  Doth  he  know 
his  letters?" 

"What  matter?"  Burlingame  asked,  joining  the  raillery.  "Whatever  I  lack, 
this  fellow  here  can  teach  me,  or  so  he  vaunts." 

"  'Swounds,  that  reminds  me,"  Ebenezer  said,  jumping  up,  "I  must  run 
to  Tower  Hill  this  minute,  to  give  young  Farmsley  his  first  recorder  lesson!" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  41  ] 

He  fetched  an  alto  recorder  from  the  mantelpiece.  "Quickly,  Henry,  how 
doth  one  blow  the  thing?" 

"Nay,  not  quickly:  slowly,"  Burlingame  said.  "'Twere  a  grievous  error 
to  learn  an  art  too  fast.  On  no  account  must  thy  Farmsley  blow  a  note 
ere  he's  spent  an  hour  fondling  the  instrument,  holding  it  properly,  taking 
it  apart  and  fitting  it  together.  And  never,  never  should  the  master  show 
off  his  own  ability,  lest  the  student  grow  discouraged  at  the  distance  he 
must  travel.  I'll  teach  you  the  left-hand  notes  tonight,  and  you  can  play 
Les  Bouffons  for  him  on  the  morrow/' 

"Must  you  go?"  Anna  asked. 

"Aye,  or  'tis  stale  bread  come  Sunday,,  for  Henry  hath  no  scholars  of 
his  own  this  week.  I  shall  trust  you  to  his  care  till  I  return." 

Anna  remained  a  week  in  London,  slipping  away  from  her  aunt's  bed- 
side as  often  as  possible  to  visit  Ebenezer  and  Burlingame.  At  the  end  of 
that  time,  the  aunt  having  recuperated  sufficiently  to  manage  for  herself, 
she  announced  her  intention  to  return  to  St.  Giles,  and  to  Burlingame's 
considerable  surprise  and  distress,  Ebenezer  declared  that  he  was  going 
with  her— nor  could  any  amount  of  expostulation  change  his  mind. 

"  Tis  no  good,"  he  would  say,  shaking  his  head.  "I  am  not  a  teacher." 

"Damn  me,"  Burlingame  cried,  "if  thou'rt  not  fleeing  responsibility!" 

"Nay.  If  I  flee,  I  flee  to  it,  not  from  it.  Twas  a  coward's  act  to  hide 
from  Father's  wrath.  I  shall  ask  his  pardon  and  do  whate'er  he  requires 
of  me." 

"A  pox  on  his  anger!  'Tis  not  responsibility  to  him  I  speak  of  at  all, 
but  responsibility  to  thyself.  Twere  a  noble  act,  on  the  face  oft,-  to  beg 
his  pardon  and  take  your  birching  like  a  man,  but  'tis  no  more  than  an 
excuse  for  dropping  the  reins  of  your  own  life.  'Sheart,  'tis  a  manlier  matter 
to  set  your  goal  and  swallow  the  consequences!" 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head.  "Put  what  face  you  will  upon  it,  Henry,  I 
must  go.  Can  a  son  stand  by  and  watch  his  father  fret  to  an  early  grave?" 

"Think  no  ill  oft,  Henry,"  Anna  pleaded. 

"Surely  you  don't  believe  it  a  wise  move  also?"  Burlingame  asked  in- 
credulously. 

"I  cannot  judge  the  wisdom  oft,"  Anna  replied,  "but  certain  'twere  not 
a  wrong  thing  to  do." 

"Marry,  I  have  done  with  the  twain  of  you!"  Burlingame  cried.  "Praise 
Heav'n  I  know  not  my  own  father,  if  this  be  how  they  shackle  one!" 

"I  pray  Heav'n  rather  you  may  someday  find  him,"  Anna  said  calmly, 


[42]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"or  word  of  him,  at  least.  A  man's  father  is  his  link  with  the  past:  the 
bond  'twixt  him  and  the  world  he's  born  to." 

"Then  again  I  thank  Heav'n  I'm  quit  of  mine/'  said  Burlingame.  "It 
leaves  me  free  and  unencumbered.7' 

"It  doth  in  sooth,  Henry,"  Anna  said  with  some  emotion,  "for  better 
or  worse." 

When  the  time  came  to  leave,  Ebenezer  asked,  "When  shall  we  see  you 
again,  Henry?  I  shall  miss  you  painfully." 

But  Burlingame  only  shrugged  and  said,  "Stay  here  now,  if  t  pain  you 
so." 

"I  shall  visit  as  often  as  I  can." 

"Nay,  risk  not  your  father's  displeasure.  Besides,  I  may  be  gone." 

"Gone?"  asked  Anna,  with  mild  alarm.  "Gone  whither,  Henry?" 

He  shrugged  again.  "There's  naught  to  keep  me  here.  I  care  not  a  fig 
for  any  of  my  pupils,  save  to  pass  the  time  till  something  else  absorbs  me." 

After  making  their  good-byes,  which  their  friend's  bitterness  rendered 
awkward,,  Ebenezer  and  Anna  hired  a  carriage  to  fetch  them  to  St.  Giles 
in  the  Fields.  The  little  journey,  though  uneventful,  they  both  enjoyed, 
for  despite  the  fact  that  Anna  was  disturbed  to  the  point  of  occasional 
tears  over  Burlingame's  attitude,  and  Ebenezer  grew  more  anxious  by 
the  mile  at  the  prospect  of  confronting  his  father,  the  carriage-ride  was 
the  twins'  first  opportunity  in  some  time  to  converse  privately  and  at 
length.  When  finally  they  arrived  at  the  Cooke  estate  they  found  to  their 
alarm  that  Andrew  had  taken  to  his  bed  three  days  before,  at  the  direction 
of  his  physician,  and  was  being  cared  for  by  Mrs.  Twigg,  the  housekeeper, 
like  an  invalid. 

"Dear  God!"  cried  Anna.  "And  I  in  London  all  the  while!" 

"  'Tis  no  fault  of  yours,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Twigg.  "He  told  us  not  to 
send  for  you.  'Twould  do  him  good  to  see  you,  though,  I'm  certain." 

"I  shall  go  too,"  Ebenezer  declared. 

"Nay,  not  just  yet,"  Anna  said.  "Let  me  see  what  state  he's  in,  and  how 
'twill  strike  him.  'Twere  best  to  prepare  him  for  it,  don't  you  think?" 

Ebenezer  agreed,  somewhat  reluctantly,  for  he  feared  his  courage  would 
fail  him  should  he  postpone  the  move  too  long.  That  same  day,  however, 
Andrew's  physician  paid  a  call  to  the  estate,  and  after  learning  what  the 
situation  was  and  assuring  Ebenezer  that  his  father  was  too  weak  to  make 
a  scene,  he  took  it  upon  himself  to  announce  to  Andrew,  as  tactfully  as 
possible,  that  his  son  had  returned. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  43  ] 

"He  desires  to  see  you  at  once/'  the  physician  reported  afterwards  to 
Ebenezer. 

"Is  he  terribly  wroth?"  Ebenezer  asked. 

"I  think  not.  Your  sister's  return  raised  his  spirits,  and  I  recalled  to  him 
the  story  of  the  prodigal  son." 

Ebenezer  went  upstairs  and  into  his  father's  bedchamber,  a  room  he  had 
entered  not  more  than  thrice  in  his  life.  He  found  his  father  anything  but 
the  figure  he'd  feared:  lying  wigless  and  thin  in  the  bed,  he  looked  nearer 
seventy  than  fifty;  his  cheeks  were  hollow,  his  eyes  pale;  his  hair  was  turning 
white,  his  voice  querulous.  At  the  sight  of  him  Ebenezer  quite  forgot  a 
small  speech  of  apology  he'd  concocted;  tears  sprang  to  his  eyes,  and  he  knelt 
beside  the  bed. 

"Get  up,  son,  get  up,"  Andrew  said  with  a  sigh,  ''and  let  me  look  at  ye. 
'Tis  good  to  see  ye  again,  I  swear  it." 

"Is't  possible  thou'rt  not  enraged?"  Ebenezer  asked,  speaking  with 
difficulty,  "My  conduct  warrants  it." 

"Ffaith,  Fve  no  longer  the  heart  for't.  Thou'rt  my  son  in  any  case,  and 
my  only  son,  and  if  I  could  wish  a  better,  you  too  might  wish  a  better 
father.  Tis  no  light  matter  to  be  a  good  one," 

"I  owe  you  much  explanation." 

"Mark  the  debt  canceled,"  Andrew  said,  "for  I've  not  the  strength  for 
that  either.  Tis  the  bad  child's  grace  to  repent,  and  the  bad  father's  to 
forgive,  and  there's  an  end  on't.  Stay,  now,  I've  a  deal  to  say  to  you  and 
small  wind  to  say  it  in.  In  yonder  table  lies  a  paper  I  drafted  only  yesterday, 
when  the  world  looked  somewhat  darker  than  it  doth  today.  Fetch  it  hither, 
if  t  please  ye." 

Ebenezer  did  as  he  was  instructed. 

"Now,"  said  his  father,  holding  the  paper  away  from  Ebenezer's  view, 
"ere  I  show  ye  this,  say  truly:  are  ye  quite  ready  to  have  done  with  flitting 
hither  and  yon,  and  commence  to  carry  a  man's  portion  like  a  man?  If  not, 
ye  may  put  this  back  where  ye  fetched  it." 

"I  shall  do  whate'er  you  wish,  sir,"  Ebenezer  said  soberly. 

"Marry,  'tis  almost  too  much  to  hopel  Mrs.  Twigg  has  oft  maintained 
that  English  babies  ne'er  should  take  French  tit,  and  lays  as  the  root  o' 
your  prodigality  the  pull  and  tug  of  French  milk  with  English  blood.  Yet 
I  have  e'er  hoped,  and  hope  still,  that  soon  or  late  I'll  see  ye  a  man,,  in  sooth 
an  Ebenezer  for  our  house." 

"Beg  pardon,  sir!  I  must  own  I  lose  you  in  this  talk  of  French  milk  and 
Ebenezers.  Surely  my  mother  wasn't  French?" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Nay,  nay,  thou'rt  English  sired  and  English  foaled,  ye  may  be  certain. 
Damn  that  doctor,  anyway!  Fetch  me  a  pipe  and  sit  ye  down,  boy,  and 
I  shall  lay  your  history  open  to  ye  once  for  all,  and  the  matter  I'm  most 
concerned  with." 

"Is't  not  unwise  to  tire  yourself?"  Ebenezer  inquired. 

"La,"  Andrew  scoffed,  "by  the  same  logic  'tis  folly  to  live.  Nay,  I'll  rest 
soon  enough  in  the  grave."  He  raised  himself  a  bit  on  the  bed,  accepted 
a  pipe  from  Ebenezer,  and  after  sampling  it  with  pleasure,  commenced 
his  story: 

"  Twas  in  the  summer  of  1665,"  he  said,  "when  I  came  to  London  from 
Maryland  to  settle  some  business  with  the  merchant  Peter  Paggen  down 
by  Baynard's  Castle,  that  I  met  and  married  Anne  Bowyer  of  Bassing- 
shawe,  your  mother.  Twas  a  brief  wooing,  and  to  escape  the  great  Plague 
we  sailed  at  once  to  Maryland  on  the  brig  Redoubt,  cargoed  with  dry  goods 
and  hardware.  We  ran  into  storms  from  the  day  we  left  the  Lizard,  and 
headwinds  from  Flores  to  the  Capes;  fourteen  weeks  we  spent  a-crossing, 
and  when  at  last  we  stepped  ashore  at  St.  Mary's  City  in  December,  poor 
Anne  was  already  three  months  with  childl  Twas  an  unhappy  circumstance, 
for  you  must  know  that  every  newcomer  to  the  plantations  endures  a  period 
of  seasoning,  some  weeks  of  fitting  to  the  clime,  and  hardier  souls  than 
Anne  have  succumbed  to't.  She  was  a  little  woman,  and  delicate,  fitter  for 
the  sewing  parlor  than  the  'tween  decks:  we'd  been  not  a  week  at  St.  Mary's 
ere  a  cold  she'd  got  on  shipboard  turned  to  a  frightful  ague.  I  fetched  her 
o'er  the  Bay  to  Maiden  at  once,  and  the  room  I'd  built  for  her  bridal- 
chamber  became  her  sick-room—she  languished  there  for  the  balance  of 
her  term,  weak  and  feverish." 

Ebenezer  listened  with  considerable  emotion,  but  could  think  of  nothing 
to  say.  His  father  drew  again  on  his  pipe. 

"My  whole  house,"  he  continued,  "and  I  as  well,  looked  for  Anne  to 
miscarry,  or  else  deliver  the  child  still-born,  by  reason  of  her  health.  None- 
theless I  took  it  upon  myself  to  seek  a  wet  nurse  on  the  chance  it  might 
live,  for  I  knew  well  poor  Anne  could  ne'er  give  suck.  As't  happened, 
one  day  in  February  I  chanced  to  be  standing  on  the  wharf  where  Cambridge 
is  now,  bargaining  with  some  planters,  when  I  heard  a  great  splash  in  the 
Choptank  behind  me,  and  turned  around  in  time  to  see  a  young  lady's 
head  go  under  the  ice." 

"Mercy!" 

"I  was  a  passing  good  swimmer  in  those  days,  despite  my  arm,  and  as 
no  one  else  seemed  inclined  to  take  a  cold  bath  I  jumped  in  after  her, 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  45  ] 

periwig  and  all,  and  held  her  up  till  the  others  fetched  us  out.  But  think 
ye  I  got  so  much  as  a  thankee  for  my  pains?  The  wench  was  no  sooner 
herself  again  than  she  commenced  to  bewail  her  rescue  and  berate  me  for 
not  letting  her  drown.  This  surprised  the  lot  of  us  no  end,  inasmuch 
as  she  was  a  pretty  young  thing,  not  above  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  old. 

44  'How  is't  ye  wish  to  end  what  you've  scarce  begun?'  I  asked  her.  'Many's 
the  merry  tale  hath  a  bad  beginning.' 

"  'No  matter  the  cause  oft,'  she  replied.  'In  sooth  I've  little  to  thank 
ye  for;  in  saving  me  from  a  short  death  by  drowning,  you  but  condemn 
me  to  a  long  one  by  freezing,  or  a  longer  by  starving/ 

"I  was  about  to  press  her  farther  for  the  cause,  but  I  chanced  to  observe 
what  I'd  not  remarked  ere  then— that  though  her  face  and  arms  were  peaked 
and  thin,  her  belly  was  a-bloom  for  fair. 

"  'Ah,  I  see't  now,'  I  said.  'Belike  your  master  had  sent  ye  to  feel  of  the 
sot-weed,  whether  'twas  dry  enough  for  casking,  and  some  field-hand  rogered 
ye  in  the  curing-house?' 

"This  I  said  by  way  of  a  tease,  inasmuch  as  I  guessed  by  her  ragged  dress 
and  grimy  skin  she  was  a  servant  girl.  She  made  no  answer,  but  shook  her 
head  and  wept  e'en  harder. 

"  Welladay,  then,'  I  said  to  her,  'if  not  a  field-hand,  why,  the  master 
himself,  and  if  not  the  curing-house,  then  the  linen  closet  or  the  cowshed. 
Such  a  belly  as  thine  is  not  got  in  church,  I  swear!  And  now  the  planter's 
not  stayed  to  lay  by  his  harvest,  I'll  wager/ 

"After  some  farther  enquiry  the  girl  owned  she  had  indeed  been  supping 
ere  the  priest  said  grace,  as  young  folks  will;  but  only  once,  and  this  not 
by  force  at  the  hands  of  a  servingman,  but  rather  at  the  entreaty  of  a 
planter's  son  who'd  sworn  his  love  for  her.  Nor  was't  a  mere  silly  milkmaid's 
maidenhead  he  took,  i'faith,  for  she  was  Roxanne  Edouard,  the  orphan 
of  the  great  French  gentleman  Cecile  Edouard  of  Edouardine,  upriver  from 
Cooke's  Point.  She'd  been  reared  since  her  parents'  death  by  a  wealthy 
uncle  in  Church  Creek,  down-county,  who  was  so  concerned  for  her  noble 
blood  that  he  permitted  her  no  suitors  from  among  the  young  men  of 
the  place.  Twas  her  bad  luck  to  fall  in  love  with  the  eldest  son  of  her 
uncle's  neighbor,  another  planter,  and  he  in  turn  was  so  taken  with  her 
that  he  begged  her  to  marry  him.  She  was  a  dutiful  enough  child  not  to 
wed  a  young  man  against  the  wishes  of  her  guardian,  but  not  so  dutiful 
that  she  didn't  let  him  have  first  go  at  her  anyhow,  in  the  bilge  of  a  piragua 
out  on  the  river.  Afterwards  she  refused  to  see  him  farther,  and  the  young 
fool  was  so  distressed  as  to  give  up  his  patrimony  and  go  to  sea  a  common 


[46]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

sailor,  ne'er  to  be  heard  from  again.  Anon  she  found  herself  with  child, 
and  straightway  confessed  the  whole  matter  to  her  uncle,  who  turned  her 
off  the  place  at  once/7 

"How!"  Ebenezer  cried.  "Tis  a  nice  concern  he  bore  her,  indeed! 
Heav'n  protect  a  child  from  such  solicitude!  I  cannot  fathom  it!" 

"Nor  I"  said  Andrew,  "but  thus  it  happened,  or  so  I  heard  it.  What's 
more,  he  threatened  violence  to  any  who  took  her  in,  and  so  poor  Roxanne 
was  soon  brought  to  direst  straits.  She  tried  to  indent  herself  as  a  domestic, 
though  'twas  little  she  knew  of  work;  but  masters  had  small  inclination 
for  a  servant  who  would  herself  need  service  ere  many  months  passed.  Every- 
one knew  her  and  her  plight,,  and  many  a  man  who'd  been  turned  from 
her  uncle's  door  for  paying  her  the  merest  cordiality  before,  made  her  the 
filthiest  proposals  now  she  was  down  on  her  luck." 

"'Sheart!  Had  the  wretches  no  pity  for  her  state?" 

"Nay,  e'en  here  her  belly  undid  her,  for  so  far  from  discouraging,  it  seemed 
rather  the  more  to  enflame  'em,  the  plainer  it  showed.  Have  ye  not  your- 
self observed "  He  glanced  at  his  son.  "Nay,  no  matter.  In  short,  she 

saw  naught  ahead  save  harlotry  and  disgrace  on  the  one  hand,  or  rape 
and  starvation  on  the  other,  and  being  ashamed  of  the  former  and  afraid 
of  the  latter,  she  chose  a  third  in  lieu  of  either,  which  was,  to  leap  into  the 
Choptank." 

"And,  prithee,  what  did  she  after  you  saved  her?"  Ebenezer  asked. 

"Why,  what  else  but  strive  with  might  and  main  to  leap  in  again?"  An- 
drew replied.  "At  last  it  occurred  to  me  to  invite  her  to  join  my  house, 
since  she  looked  to  lighten  but  a  week  ere  poor  Anne;  I  agreed  to  keep 
her  well  and  provide  for  her  confinement  on  condition  she  suckle  our  babe, 
if  it  should  live,  with  her  own.  She  agreed,  we  drafted  the  indenture-papers, 
and  I  fetched  her  back  to  Maiden. 

"Now  your  mother,  God  rest  her,  grew  worse  all  the  time.  She  was  a 
wondrous  Protestant,  much  giv'n  to  Bible-reading,  and  whene'er  I  showed 
her  pity  she  was  wont  to  reply,  Tear  not,  husband:  the  Lord  will  help  us/  " 

"Bless  her!"  said  Ebenezer. 

"'Twas  her  conceit,"  Andrew  went  on,  "to  regard  her  several  infirm- 
ities as  an  enemy  host,  and  late  and  soon  she  was  after  me  to  read  her  from 
the  Old  Testament  of  God's  military  intercessions  in  behalf  of  the 
Israelites.  Hence  when  her  ague  passed  off  without  killing  her  (albeit  it  left 
her  pitifully  weak),  she  was  proud  as  any  general  who  sees  a  flank  of  the 
enemy  turned,  and  she  declared  like  the  prophet  Samuel  upon  the  rout 
of  the  Philistines,  Thus  far  hath  the  Lord  helped  us!'  At  length  her  time 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [47] 

arrived,  and  after  frightful  labor  she  brought  forth  Anna,  eight  pounds 
and  a  half.  She  named  her  after  her  own  mother,  and  said  again  to  me, 
'Thus  far  hath  the  good  Lord  helped  us!'  Not  a  soul  then  but  thought 
her  trials  were  done,  and  even  I,  who  was  no  Catholic  saint  nor  Protestant 
either,  thanked  God  for  her  delivery.  But  not  an  hour  after  bearing  Anna 
her  travail  commenced  again,  and  after  much  clamor  and  hollowing  she 
brought  you  to  light,  nigh  as  big  as  your  sister.  Seventeen  pounds  of  child 
she  dropped  in  all,  from  a— well,  from  a  frame  so  delicate,  simple  flatulence 
gave  her  pain.  'Twas  no  wonder  she  passed  into  a  coma  ere  your  shoulders 
cleared,  and  ne'er  recovered  from  it!  That  same  night  she  died,  and  the 
weather  being  unseasonably  hot  for  May,  I  fetched  her  down  next  day  and 
buried  her  'neath  a  great  loblolly  pine  tree  on  the  Bay  side  of  the  point, 
where  she  lies  yet." 

"God  help  me!"  Ebenezer  wept.  "I  am  not  worthy  oft!" 

"'Twould  be  dishonest  not  to  own/'  Andrew  said,  "that  such  exactly 
were  my  sentiments  at  the  time,  God  forgive  me.  E'en  as  the  burial  service 
was  read  I  could  hear  the  twain  of  you  a-squalling  up  in  the  house,  and 
when  I  placed  a  boulder  atop  the  sandy  grave,  against  the  time  our  mason 
could  letter  a  headstone,  it  recalled  to  me  those  verses  in  the  Book  of 
Samuel  where  God  smites  the  Philistines  and  Samuel  dedicates  the  token 
of  His  aid— the  stone  the  Hebrews  called  Ebenezer.  Twas  then,  boy,  in 
bitterness  and  sacrilege,  I  gave  ye  that  name:  I  baptized  ye  myself,  ere 
Roxanne  could  stay  me,  with  the  dregs  of  a  flagon  of  perry,  and  declared 
to  the  company  of  Maiden,  'Thus  far  hath  the  Lord  helped  us!' " 

"Ah,  dear  Father,  berate  thyself  no  more  for't,"  Ebenezer  begged— 
though  Andrew  had  displayed  no  particular  emotion.  "I  understand  and 
forgive!" 

Andrew  tapped  out  his  pipe  in  a  spittoon  beside  the  bed  and,  after 
resting  a  moment,  resumed  his  story. 

"In  any  case/'  he  said  calmly,  ''you  and  your  sister  ne'er  wanted  mothering. 
The  girl  Roxanne  had  borne  her  own  child,  a  daughter,  eight  days  before, 
but  the  babe  had  strangled  ere  its  first  cry  with  the  navel-cord  round  its  neck; 
so  that  maugre  the  fact  there  were  two  of  ye,  instead  of  one,  she  had  no 
more  mouths  to  feed  than  breasts  to  feed  'em  with,  and  there  was  milk 
aplenty  for  all.  She  was  e'er  a  healthy  wench  once  on  her  feed  again— 
ruddy-faced,  full-breasted,  and  spirited  as  a  dairymaid  for  all  her  fine  blood. 
For  the  four  years  of  her  indenture  she  raised  ye  as  her  own.  Mrs.  Twigg 
declared  no  good  could  come  of  mixing  French  pap  and  English  blood, 
but  ye  grew  fat  and  merry  as  any  babes  in  Dorset. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"In  1670,  the  last  year  of  Roxanne's  service,  I  resolved  to  leave  Maiden 
for  London.  I  was  weary  of  factoring,  for  one  thing;  I  saw  no  chance  to  im- 
prove my  tobacco-holdings,  for  another;  and  though  Cooke's  Point  is  of  all 
places  on  earth  dearest  to  my  heart,  and  my  first  and  largest  property,  yet 
'twas  e'er  a  heartache  to  live  a  widower  in  the  house  Fd  raised  for  my 
bride.  Moreover,  I  must  own  my  position  with  regard  to  Roxanne  had  got 
somewhat  delicate  since  poor  Anne's  death.  That  she  thought  no  ill  o'  me 
I  took  for  granted,  for  she  was  bound  to  me  by  gratitude  as  well  as  legal 
instrument.  I  in  turn  was  more  than  a  little  obliged  to  her,  in  that  she'd 
not  only  suckled  twice  as  many  of  my  children  as  she  was  legally  bound 
to,  but  done  it  with  a  mother's  love,  and  had  taken  on  most  of  Mrs,  Twigg's 
duties  as  governess  as  well,  out  of  pure  affection  for  ye.  I've  said  already 
she  was  an  uncommon  pretty  piece,  and  I  at  that  time  was  a  strapping 
wight  of  thirty-three,  prosperous  and  it  may  be  not  unhandsome,  who  by 
reason  of  poor  Anne's  affliction  and  death  had  perforce  slept  alone  and 
uncomf orted  since  my  arrival  in  the  province.  Hence,  'tis  not  surprising 
some  small-minded  busybodies  should  have  it  Roxanne  was  filling  Anne's 
place  in  the  bedchamber  as  well  as  the  nursery— more  especially  since  they 
themselves  had  lechered  after  her.  Tis  e'er  the  way  of  men,  I've  learned, 
to  credit  others  with  the  sins  themselves  want  either  the  courage  or  the 
means  to  commit." 

"But  marry,  what  vicious  gossip!" 

"Aye/'  Andrew  said,  "but  As  -well  be  a  sinner  as  known  for  one.  What  a 
man  is  in  the  eyes  of  God  means  little  to  the  world  of  men.  All  things 
considered,  I  thought  it  well  to  release  her;  yet  I  could  by  no  means  send 
her  back  to  death  or  harlotry,  and  so  'twas  a  pleasant  surprise  when,  one 
day  on  that  selfsame  landing  where  I'd  met  her,  I  was  approached  by  a 
man  who  introduced  himself  as  Roxanne's  uncle,  and  asked  most  solicit- 
ously after  his  niece." 

"I  pray  the  fellow  had  tempered  his  wrath  by  then." 

"He  had,"  Andrew  said,  "to  the  point  where  the  very  thought  of  his 
former  unkindness  started  him  to  tears,  and  when  I  told  him  of  Roxanne's 
subsequent  straits  and  of  the  death  of  her  infant,  he  near  tore  his  hair  in 
remorse.  There  was  no  end  to  his  expressions  of  gratitude  for  my  having 
saved  and  cared  for  her;  he  declared  himself  eager  to  make  amends  for  his 
severity,  and  entreated  me  to  prevail  upon  Roxanne  to  return  to  his  house. 
I  reminded  him  that  it  was  his  unreasonableness  in  the  matter  of  suitors 
for  his  niece  that  had  driven  her  to  her  former  disgrace,  and  he  replied 
that  so  far  from  persisting  in  that  unreasonableness,  he  had  in  mind  at 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [49] 

that  very  moment  an  excellent  match  for  her  with  a  wealthy  fellow  of 
the  neighborhood,  who  had  e'er  looked  kindly  upon  her. 

"You  can  imagine  Roxanne's  surprise  when  she  learned  of  all  this.  She 
was  pleased  to  hear  of  her  uncle's  change  of  heart,  and  yet  'twas  like  giving 
up  two  of  her  own  to  let  you  and  Anna  go.  She  wept  and  wailed,  as  women 
will  at  any  great  change  in  their  circumstances,  and  pleaded  with  me  to 
take  her  to  London,  but  it  seemed  to  me  'twould  be  a  disservice  to  the 
twain  of  us  to  maintain  any  longer  our  connection,  more  especially  since 
her  uncle  had  a  substantial  match  arranged  for  her.  Thus  was  it  that  on 
the  same  day  when  I  gave  Roxanne  my  half  of  her  indenture-bond,  sig- 
nifying the  end  of  her  service,  her  uncle  drove  out  to  Maiden  in  a  buck- 
board  and  fetched  her  away,  and  that  was  that.  Not  a  fortnight  later  I  too 
made  my  last  farewells  to  Maiden,  and  to  the  grave  of  your  mother,  and 
left  Maryland  forever.  Think  not  'twas  an  easy  matter  to  go:  'tis  a  rarity 
indeed  when  Life  presents  ye  with  a  clean  choice,  i'faith!  Tis  more  her  wont 
to  arrange  things  in  such  fashion  that  de'il  the  course  ye  choose,  'twill  give 
ye  pain.  Eheu!  Fve  rambled  and  digressed  till  I'm  near  out  of  wind!  Here 
now/'  he  said,  handing  Ebenezer  the  document  he'd  been  toying  and 
gesturing  with  throughout  his  narration.  "Read  this  whilst  I  catch  my 
breath." 

Ebenezer  took  the  paper,  curious  and  uneasy,  and  read,  among  other 
things: 

Andrew  Cooke  of  the  parish  of  St.  Giles  in  the  Fields  in  the  County  of  Middle- 
sex, Gentleman  doe  make  this  my  last  will  and  Testament  as  followeth  ...  In* 
primus  I  give  to  my  Son  Ebenezer  Cooke  and  Anna  Cooke  my  daughter  all  my 
Right  and  Title  of  and  to  ...  all  my  Land  called  Cookes  Poynt  lyng  at  the 
mouth  of  great  Choptank  River  lyng  in  Dorchester  County  in  Maryland  .  .  . 
share  and  share  alike.  .  .  , 

"Dost  see't,  boy?"  Andrew  demanded.  "Dost  grasp  it,  damn  ye?  Tis 
Cooke's  Point;  'tis  my  dear  sweet  Maiden,  where  the  twain  of  ye  saw  day- 
light and  your  mother  lies  yet!  There's  this  house  too,  and  the  place  on 
Plumtree  Street,  but  Cooke's  Point's  where  my  heart  lies;  Maiden's  my 
darling,  that  I  raised  out  o'  the  wilderness.  'Tis  your  legacy,  Eben,  your 
inheritance;  'tis  your  personal  piece  o'  the  great  wide  world  to  husband 
and  to  fructify— and  a  noble  legacy  'tis,  b'm'faith!  'Share  and  share  alike/ 
but  the  job  of  managing  an  estate  is  man's  work,  not  woman's.  Twas  for 
this  I  got,  reared,  and  schooled  ye,,  and  'tis  for  this  ye  must  work  and  gird 
yourself,  damn  ye,  to  make  ye  worthy  oft,  and  play  no  more  at  shiU  I, 
shall  II" 


[  rO  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Ebenezer  blushed.  "I  am  sensible  I  have  been  remiss,  and  I've  naught 
to  say  in  my  defense,  save  that  'twas  not  stupidity  undid  me  at  Cambridge, 
but  feckless  indirection.  Would  God  I'd  had  dear  Henry  Burlingame  to 
steer  and  prod  me!" 

"Burlingamer  cried  Andrew.  "Fogh!  He  came  no  nearer  the  baccalau- 
reate than  yourself.  Nay,  'twas  your  dear  rascal  Burlingame  ruined  ye, 
methinks,  in  not  teaching  ye  how  to  work."  He  waved  the  draft  of  his 
will  "Think  ye  your  Burlingame  will  ever  have  a  Maiden  to  bequeath? 
Fie  on  that  scoundrel!  Mention  his  name  no  more  to  me,  an't  please  ye, 
lest  I  suffer  a  stroke!" 

"I  am  sorry/'  said  Ebenezer,  who  had  mentioned  Burlingame's  name 
intentionally  to  observe  his  father's  reaction:  he  now  concluded  it  would 
be  impolitic  to  describe  in  any  detail  his  sojourn  in  London.  "I  know  no 
way  to  show  you  how  your  magnanimity  shames  me  for  my  failure.  Send 
me  back  to  Cambridge,  if  you  will,  and  I  swear  on  oath  I'll  not  repeat  my 
former  errors." 

Andrew  reddened.  "Cambridge  my  arse!  Tis  Maryland  shall  be  your 
Cambridge,  and  a  field  of  sot-weed  your  library!  And  for  diploma,  if  ye 
apply  yourself,  haply  you'll  frame  a  bill  of  exchange  for  ten  thousandweight 
of  Oronoco!" 

"You  mean  to  send  me  to  Maryland,  then?"  Ebenezer  asked  uncom- 
fortably. 

"Aye,  to  till  the  ground  that  spawned  ye,  but  thou'rt  by  no  means  fit 
for't  yet;  I  fear  the  University  hath  so  addled  and  debilitated  ye,  you've 
not  the  head  to  manage  an  estate  nor  the  back  to  till  it.  Twill  take  some 
doing  to  sweat  Burlingame  and  the  college  out  o'  ye,  but  A  man  must  vtdk 
ere  he  runs.  What  ye  want's  but  an  honest  apprenticeship:  I  mean  to  send 
ye  forthwith  to  London,  to  clerk  for  the  merchant  Peter  Paggen.  Study  the 
ins  and  outs  of  the  plantation  trade,  as  did  I  and  my  father  before  me, 
and  I  swear  'twill  stand  ye  in  better  stead  than  aught  ye  heard  at  Cam- 
bridge, when  time  comes  for  ye  to  take  your  place  at  Maiden!" 

Now  this  course  of  life  was  not  one  that  Ebenezer  would  have  chosen 
for  himself— but  then  neither  was  any  other,  and  he  had  no  grounds  for 
refusing  this  or  any  proposal,  for  when  he  looked  within  himself  he  found 
such  a  motley  host  of  opinions,  of  all  ilks  and  stamps,  anarchic  and  shifting, 
that  to  mark  the  strongest  was  a  thing  beyond  him.  Moreover,  when  he 
reflected  upon  it,  he  was  not  blind  to  a  certain  attractiveness  about  the 
planter's  life  as  he  envisioned  it:  he  could  see  himself  inspecting  the  labor 
of  the  fields  from  the  back  of  his  favorite  riding-horse;  smoking  the  tobacco 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [51] 

that  made  him  wealthy;  drinking  quince  or  perry  from  his  own  distillery 
with  a  few  refined  companions;  whiling  away  the  idle  evenings  on  the 
gallery  of  his  manor-house,  remarking  the  mallards  out  on  the  river,  and 
perhaps  composing  occasional  verses  of  ease  and  dignity.  He  was,  alas,  not 
blind  to  the  attractiveness  of  any  kind  of  life.  And  more  immediately,  the 
prospect  of  returning  to  London  with  a  clear  conscience  pleased  him. 

Therefore  he  said,  halfheartedly  but  not  cheerlessly,  "Just:  as  you  wish, 
Father.  I  shall  try  to  do  well." 

"Why,  thank  Heav'n  for  that!"  Andrew  declared,  and  even  contrived  a 
thin  smile.  "  'Thus  far  hath  the  Lord  helped  usl'  Leave  me  now  for  the 
nonce,  ere  I  collapse  from  very  weariness." 

Andrew  settled  back  in  bed,  turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  and  said  no  more. 


5:    EBENEZER    COMMENCES    HIS    SECOND    SOJOURN 
IN   LONDON,   AND    FARES    UNSPECTACULARLY 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  GREAT  UNREST  IN  THE  NATION  AT  THIS  TIME,  OCCASIONED 

by  the  conflict  between  James  II  and  William  of  Orange,  Ebenezer,  at  his 
father's  advice,  did  not  return  toiondon  until  the  winter  of  1688,  by  which 
time  William  and  Mary  were  securely  established  on  the  throne  of  Eng- 
land. The  idle  year  at  St.  Giles  was,  although  he  had  no  way  of  realizing 
it  at  the  time,  perhaps  Ebenezer's  nearest  approach  to  happiness.  He  had 
nothing  at  all  to  do  except  read,  walk  about  the  countryside  or  London- 
without-the-walls,  and  talk  at  length  with  his  sister.  Although  he  could  not 
look  to  his  future  with  enthusiasm,  at  least  he  had  not  to  bear  the  respon- 
sibility of  having  chosen  it  himself.  In  the  spring  and  summer,  when  the 
weather  turned  fine,  he  grew  too  restless  even  to  read.  He  felt  full  to  burst- 
ing with  ill-defined  potentialities.  Often  he  would  sit  a  whole  morning  in 
the  shade  of  a  pear  tree  behind  the  house  playing  airs  on  the  tenor  re- 
corder, whose  secrets  he  had  learned  from  Burlingame.  He  cared  for  no 
sports;  he  wished  not  even  to  see  anyone,  except  Anna.  The  air,  drenched 
with  sun  and  clover,  made  him  volatile.  On  several  occasions  he  was  so 
full  of  feeling  as  to  fear  he'd  swoon  if  he  could  not  empty  himself  of  it. 
But  often  as  he  tried  to  set  down  verses,  he  could  not  begin:  his  fancy 
would  not  settle  on  stances  and  conceits.  He  spent  the  warm  months  in 


[  52  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

a  kind  of  nervous  exaltation  which,  while  more  upsetting  than  pleasurable 
at  the  moment,  left  a  sweet  taste  in  his  mouth  at  day's  end.  In  the  evenings, 
often  as  not,  he  would  watch  meteors  slide  down  the  sky  till  he  grew  dizzy. 

And  though  again  he  could  not  know  it  at  the  time,  this  idle  season 
afforded  him  what  was  to  be  his  last  real  communion  with  his  sister  for 
many  a  year.  Even  so,  it  was  for  the  most  part  inarticulate;  somewhere  they'd 
lost  the  knack  of  talking  closely  to  each  other.  Of  the  things  doubtless  most 
important  to  each  they  spoke  not  at  all— Ebenezer's  failure  at  Cambridge 
and  his  impending  journey;  Anna's  uncertain  past  connection  with 
Burlingame  and  her  present  isolation  from  and  lack  of  interest  in  suitors 
of  any  sort.  But  they  walked  together  a  great  deal,  and  one  hot  forenoon 
in  August,  as  they  sat  under  a  sycamore  near  a  rocky  little  stream-branch 
that  ran  through  the  property,  Anna  clutched  his  right  arm,  pressed  her 
forehead  to  it,  and  wept  for  several  minutes.  Ebenezer  comforted  her  as 
best  he  could  without  inquiring  the  reason  for  her  tears:  he  assumed  it  was 
some  feeling  about  their  maturity  that  grieved  her.  At  this  time,  in  their 
twenty-second  year  of  life,  Anna  looked  somewhat  older*  than  her  brother, 

Andrew,  once  his  son's  affairs  seemed  secure,  grew  gradually  stronger, 
and  by  autumn  was  apparently  in  excellent  health  again,  though  for  the 
rest  of  his  life  he  looked  older  than  his  years.  In  early  November  he  de- 
clared the  political  situation  stable  enough  to  warrant  the  boy's  departure; 
a  week  later  Ebenezer  bade  the  household  good-bye  and  set  out  for 
London. 

The  first  thing  he  did,  after  finding  lodging  for  himself  in  a  Pudding 
Lane  boardinghouse,  was  visit  Burlingame's  address,  to  see  how  his  old 
friend  fared.  But  to  his  surprise  he  found  the  premises  occupied  by  new 
tenants—a  draper  and  his  family— and  none  of  the  neighbors  knew  any- 
thing of  Henry's  whereabouts.  That  evening,  therefore,  when  he'd  seen  to 
the  arrangement  of  his  belongings,  he  went  to  Locket's,  hoping  to  find 
there,  if  not  Burlingame  himself,  at  least  some  of  their  mutual  acquaintances 
who  might  have  news  of  him. 

He  found  three  of  the  group  to  which  Burlingame  had  introduced  him. 
One  was  Ben  Oliver,  a  great  fat  poet  with  beady  eyes  and  black  curly 
hair,  arrogant  and  energetic,  a  very  rakehell,  who  some  said  was  a  Jew. 
Another  was  Tom  Trent,  a  short  sallow  boy  from  Christ's  College,  also  a 
poet:  he'd  been  sent  to  prepare  for  the  ministry,  but  had  so  loathed  the 
idea  that  he  caught  French  pox  from  a  doxy  he  kept  in  his  quarters  by 
way  of  contempt  for  his  calling,  and  was  finally  dismissed  upon  his  spread- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  53  ] 

ing  the  contagion  to  his  tutor  and  at  least  two  professors  who  had  befriended 
him.  Since  then  he'd  come  to  take  a  great  interest  in  religion:  he  liked  no 
poets  save  Dante  and  Milton,  maintained  a  virtual  celibacy,  and  in  his 
cups  was  wont  to  shout  verses  of  Scripture  at  the  company  in  his  great  bass 
voice.  The  third,  Dick  Merriweather,  was  despite  his  surname  a  gloojny 
pessimist,  ever  contemplating  suicide,  who  wrote  only  elegiac  verse  on  the 
subject  of  his  own  demise.  Whatever  the  disparity  in  their  temperaments, 
however,  the  three  men  lived  in  the  same  house  and  were  almost  always 
found  together. 

"I'God,  'tis  Eben  Cooke  the  scholar!"  cried  Ben  upon  seeing  him.  "Have 
a  bottle  with  us,  fellow,  and  teach  us  the  Truth!" 
"We  thought  you  dead,"  said  Dick. 

Tom  Trent  said  nothing:  he  was  unmoved  by  greetings  and  farewells. 
Ebenezer  returned  their  greetings,  drank  a  drink  with  them,  and,  after 
explaining  his  return  to  London,  inquired  after  Burlingame. 

"We've  seen  none  of  him  for  a  year,"  Ben  said.  "He  left  us  shortly  after 
you  did,  and  I'd  have  said  the  twain  of  you  were  off  together  on  some 
lark." 

"I  recall  hearing  he'd  gone  to  sea  again,"  Dick  Merriweather  said.  "Belike 
he's  at  the  bottom  oft  ere  now,  or  swimming  in  the  belly  of  a  whale." 

"Stay,"  said  Ben.  "Now  I  think  on't,  didn't  I  have  it  from  Tom  here 
'twas  Trinity  College  Henry  went  back  to,  to  earn  his  baccalaureate?" 

"  'Twas  what  I  had  from  Joan  Toast,  that  had  it  from  Henry  the  last 

night  ere  he  left,"  Tom  said  indifferently.  "I'll  own  I  pay  scant  heed  to 

gossip  of  goings  and  comings,  and  'tis  not  impossible  I  misheard  her." 

"Who  is  this  Joan  Toast  then,  pray,  and  where  might  I  find  her?"  asked 

Ebenezer. 

"No  need  to  seek  her'9  Ben  laughed;  "she's  but  a  merry  whore  of  the 
place,  and  you  may  ask  what  you  will  of  her  anon,  when  she  comes  in  to 
find  a  bedfellow." 

Ebenezer  waited  until  the  girl  arrived,  and  learned  only  that  Burlingame 
had  spoken  of  his  intention  to  ransack  the  libraries  of  Cambridge  for  a 
fortnight— for  what  purpose  she  did  not  know,  nor  did  any  amount  of  in- 
quiry around  the  winehouse  shed  more  light  on  his  intentions  or  present 
whereabouts.  During  the  next  week  Ebenezer  lost  no  opportunity  to  ask 
after  his  friend,  but  when  it  became  clear  that  no  clues  were  to  be  found, 
he  reluctantly  abandoned  his  efforts,  wrote  Anna  a  distressed  note  inform- 
ing her  of  the  news,  and  in  the  following  months  and  years  came  almost  to 


[  tA  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

forget  Henry's  existence— though  to  be  sure,  he  felt  the  loss  acutely  when- 
ever the  name  occurred  to  him. 

Meanwhile,  he  presented  himself  at  the  establishment  of  the  merchant 
Peter  Paggen,  and,  on  producing  letters  from  his  father,  was  set  to  totting 
up  accounts  with  the  junior  apprentices  at  a  little  desk  among  many  others 
in  a  large  room.  It  was  understood  that  if  he  applied  himself  diligently  and 
showed  some  ability  in  his  work,  he  would  be  promoted  after  a  week  or  so 
to  a  post  from  which  he  could  observe  to  better  advantage  the  workings  of 
the  plantation  trade  (Mr.  Paggen  had  extensive  dealings  in  Maryland  and 
Virginia).  Unfortunately,  this  promotion  was  never  granted  him.  For  one 
thing,  no  matter  how  hard  he  tried,  Ebenezer  could  not  concentrate  his 
attention  on  the  accounts.  He  would  begin  to  add  a  column  of  totally 
meaningless  figures  and  realize  five  minutes  later  that  he'd  been  staring  at 
a  wen  on  the  neck  of  the  boy  in  front  of  him,  or  rehearsing  in  his  mind  a 
real  or  imaginary  conversation  between  himself  and  Burlingame,  or  draw- 
ing mazes  on  a  bit  of  scratch-paper.  For  the  same  reason,  though  he  had 
by  no  means  the  troublemaker's  temperament,  his  untamable  fancy  more 
than  once  led  him  to  be  charged  with  irresponsibility:  one  day,  for  example, 
scarcely  conscious  of  what  he  was  about,  he  involved  himself  entirely  in  a 
game  with  a  small  black  ant  that  had  wandered  across  the  page.  The  rule  of 
the  game,  which  he  invested  with  the  inexorability  of  natural  law,  was  that 
every  time  the  ant  trod  unwittingly  upon  a  3  or  a  9,  Ebenezer  would  close 
his  eyes  and  tap  the  page  thrice,  smartly  and  randomly,  with  the  point  of 
his  quill.  Although  his  role  of  Deus  civi  NatUTa  precluded  mercy,  his  senti- 
ments were  unequivocally  on  the  side  of  the  ant:  with  an  effort  that  brought 
sweat  to  his  brow  he  tried  by  force  of  thought  to  steer  the  hapless  creature 
from  dangerous  numbers;  he  opened  his  eyes  after  every  series  of  taps,  half 
afraid  to  look  at  the  paper.  The  game  was  profoundly  exciting.  After  some 
ten  or  fifteen  minutes  the  ant  had  the  bad  luck  to  be  struck  by  a  drop  of 
ink  not  a  half  inch  from  the  9  that  had  triggered  the  bombardment:  flailing 
blindly,  he  inked  a  tiny  trail  straight  back  to  the  9  again,  and  this  time, 
after  being  bracketed  by  the  first  two  taps,  he  was  smitten  squarely  with 
the  third.  Ebenezer  looked  down  to  find  him  curled  and  dying  in  the  loop 
of  the  digit.  Tears  of  compassion,  tempered  with  vast  understanding  and 
acceptance  of  the  totality  of  life  and  the  unalterable  laws  of  the  universe, 
welled  in  his  eyes;  his  genital  stiffened.  At  last  the  ant  expired.  Suddenly 
self-conscious,  Ebenezer  glanced  around  to  see  whether  anyone  had  no- 
ticed him,  and  everyone  in  the  room  laughed  aloud;  they  had  witnessed 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  55  ] 

the  whole  performance.  From  that  day  on  they  regarded  him  as  more  or 
less  mad  instead  of  simply  odd;  luckily  for  Ebenezer,  however,  they  be- 
lieved him  to  have  some  special  connection  with  their  employer  Mr. 
Paggen,  and  so  made  little  of  the  incident  except  among  themselves. 

But  it  would  not  be  fair  to  suggest  that  Ebenezer  was  entirely  responsi- 
ble for  his  impasse.  There  were  a  few  occasions  during  the  first  year  when 
he  managed  to  do  his  work  satisfactorily,  even  intelligently,  for  several 
weeks  running,  and  yet  no  mention  was  made  of  transferring  him  to  the 
promised  post.  Only  once  did  he  muster  courage  enough  to  inquire  about 
it:  Mr.  Paggen  made  him  a  vague  reply  which  he  accepted  eagerly,  in  order 
to  terminate  the  interview,  and  never  spoke  of  it  again.  Actually,  except 
for  infrequent  twinges  of  conscience,  Ebenezer  was  quite  content  to 
languish  among  the  junior  apprentices:  he  had  learned  the  job  and  was 
frightened  at  the  prospect  of  learning  another.  Moreover,  he  found  the 
city  suited  to  his  languor;  his  free  hours  he  spent  with  his  friends  in  the 
coffee-houses,  taverns,  or  theaters.  Now  and  again  he  devoted  a  Sunday, 
without  much  success,  to  his  writing-desk.  And  in  general  he  came  quite  to 
forget  what  it  was  he  was  supposed  to  be  doing  in  London. 

It  was  withal  a  curious  time  in  his  life.  If  not  actually  satisfying,  the 
routine  was  at  any  rate  in  no  way  unpleasant,  and  Ebenezer  floated  along 
in  it  like  a  fitful  sleeper  in  a  warm  wash  of  dreams.  Often,  chameleonlike, 
he  was  but  a  reflection  of  his  situation:  were  his  companions  boasting  the 
tenuousness  of  their  positions  he  might  declare,  in  a  burst  of  camaraderie^ 
"Shpuld  old  Andy  discover  my  situation,  'twould  be  off  to  Maryland  with 
me,  sirs,  and  no  mistake!"  As  often  he  went  out  of  his  way  to  differ  with 
them,  and  half-yearned  for  the  bracing  life  of  the  plantations.  Still  other 
times  he'd  sit  like  a  stuffed  stork  all  the  afternoon  without  a  word.  So,  one 
day  cocksure,  one  day  timorous;  one  day  fearless,  one  craven;  now  the  natty 
courtier,  now  the  rumpled  poet— and  devil  the  hue  that  momently  colored 
him,  he'd  look  a-fidget  at  the  rest  of  the  spectrum.  For  what's  red  to  a 
rainbow? 

All  of  which  is  to  say,  if  you  wish,  that  insofar  as  to  be  is  to  be  in  essence 
the  same  Johnny-come-Friday  that  was  John  o'  Thursday,  why,  this 
Ebenezer  Cooke  was  no  man  at  all.  As  for  Andrew,  he  must  have  been 
incurious  about  his  boy's  life  in  London,  or  else  believed  that  A  good  post 
is  worth  a  long  wait.  The  idyl  lasted  not  for  one,  but  for  five  or  six  years, 
or  until  1694— in  the  March  of  which,  when  a  disastrous  wager  brought  it 
to  a  sudden  end,  our  story  begins. 


6:    THE  MOMENTOUS  WAGER  BETWEEN  EBENEZER 
AND  BEN  OLIVER,  AND  ITS  UNCOMMON  RESULT 


PIMP  IN  EBENEZER'S  CIRCLE  WAS  ONE  WIRY,  RED-HAIRED,  BEFRECKLED 
ex-Dubliner  named  John  McEvoy,  twenty-one  years  old  and  devoid  of 
school  education,  as  long  in  energy  and  resourcefulness  as  short  in  money 
and  stature,  who  spent  his  days  abed,  his  evenings  pimping  for  his  privileged 
companions,  and  the  greater  part  of  his  nights  composing  airs  for  the  lute 
and  flute,  and  who  from  the  world  of  things  that  men  have  valued  prized 
none  but  three:  his  mistress  Joan  Toast  (who,  whore  as  well,  was  both  his 
love  and  his  living),  his  music,  and  his  liberty.  No  one-crown  frisker  Joan, 
but  a  two-guinea  hen  well  worth  the  gold  to  bed  her,  as  knew  every  man 
among  them  but  Ebenezer;  she  loved  her  John  for  all  he  was  her  pimp, 
and  he  her  truly  too  for  all  she  was  his  whore— for  no  man  "was  ever  fust 
a.  pimp,  nor  any  woman  merely  whore.  They  seemed,  in  fact,  a  devoted 
couple,  and  jealous. 

All  spirit,  imagination,,  and  brave  brown  eyes,  small-framed,  large- 
breasted,  and  tight-skinned  (though  truly  somewhat  coarse-pored,  and 
stringy  in  the  hair,  and  with  teeth  none  of  the  best),  this  Joan  Toast  was 
his  for  the  night  who'd  two  guineas  to  take  her  for,  and  indignify  her  as 
he  would,  she'd  give  him  his  gold's  worth  and  more,  for  she  took  that 
pleasure  in  her  work  as  were  she  the  buyer  and  he  the  vendor;  but  come 
morning  she  was  cold  as  a  fish  and  back  to  her  Johnny  McEvoy,  and  should 
her  lover  of  the  night  past  so  much  as  wink  eye  at  her  in  the  light  of  day, 
there  was  no  more  Joan  Toast  for  him  at  any  price. 

Ebenezer  had  of  course  observed  her  for  some  years  as  she  and  his  com- 
panions came  and  went  in  their  harlotry,  and  from  the  talk  in  the  coffee- 
house had  got  to  know  about  her  in  great  detail  at  second  hand  a  number 
of  things  that  his  personal  disorganization  precluded  learning  at  first.  When 
m  manly  moments  he  thought  of  her  at  all  it  was  merely  as  a  tart  whom, 
should  he  one  day  find  himself  single-minded  enough,  it  might  be  sweet 
to  hire  to  initiate  him  at  long  last  into  the  mysteries.  For  it  happened  that, 
though  near  thirty,  Ebenezer  was  yet  a  virgin,  and  this  for  the  reason  ex- 
plained in  the  previous  chapters,  that  he  was  no  person  at  all:  he  could 
picture  any  kind  of  man  taking  a  woman-the  bold  as  well  as  the  bashful, 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  57  ] 

the  clean  green  boy  and  the  dottermg  gray  lecher— and  work  out  in  his 
mind  the  speeches  appropriate  to  each  under  any  of  several  sorts  of  cir- 
cumstances. But  because  he  felt  himself  no  more  one  of  these  than  another 
and  admired  all,  when  a  situation  presented  itself  he  could  never  choose 
one  role  to  play  over  all  the  rest  he  knew,  and  so  always  ended  up  either 
turning  down  the  chance  or,  what  was  more  usually  the  case,  retreating 
gracelessly  and  in  confusion,  if  not  always  embarrassment.  Generally,  there- 
fore, women  did  not  give  him  a  second  glance,  not  because  he  was  uncomely 
—he  had  marked  well  that  some  of  the  greatest  seducers  have  the  faces  of 
goats  and  the  manner  of  lizards— but  because,  a  woman  having  taken  in 
his  ungainly  physique,  there  remained  no  other  thing  for  her  to  notice. 

Indeed  he  might  have  gone  virgin  to  his  grave— for  there  are  urgencies 
that  will  be  heeded  if  not  one  way  then  perforce  another,  and  that  same 
knuckly  hand  that  penned  him  his  couplets  took  no  wooing  to  make  his 
quick  mistress— but  on  this  March  night  in  1694  he  was  noticed  by  Joan 
Toast,  in  the  following  manner:  the  gallants  were  sitting  in  a  ring  at 
Locket's,,  as  was  their  custom,  drinking  wine,  gossiping,  and  boasting  their 
conquests,  both  of  the  muse  and  of  lesser  wenches.  There  were  Dick 
Merriweather,  Tom  Trent,  and  Ben  Oliver  already  well  wined,  Johnny 
McEvoy  and  Joan  Toast  out  for  a  customer,  and  Ebenezer  incom* 
municado. 

"Heigh-ho!"  sighed  Dick  at  a  lull  in  their  talk.  "  Twere  a  world  one 
could  live  in  did  wealth  follow  wit,  for  gold's  the  best  bait  to  snare  sweet 
conies  with,  and  then  we  poets  were  fearsome  trappers  all!" 

"No  need  gold,"  replied  Ben,  "did  God  but  give  women  half  an  eye  for 
their  interests.  What  makes  your  good  lover,  if  not  fire  and  fancy?  And  for 
whom  if  not  us  poets  are  fire  and  fancy  the  very  stock  in  trade?  From 
which  'tis  clear,  that  of  all  men  the  poet  is  most  to  be  desired  as  a  lover:  if 
his  mistress  have  beauty,  his  is  the  eye  will  most  be  gladdened  by't;  if  she 
have  it  not,  his  is  the  imagination  that  best  can  mask  its  lack.  If  she  displease 
him,  and  he  slough  her  off  shortly*  she  hath  at  least  had  for  a  time  the  best 
that  woman  can  get;  if  she  please  him,  he  will  haply  fix  her  beauty  for 
good  and  all  in  verse,  where  neither  age  nor  pox  can  spoil  it.  And  as  poets 
as  a  class  are  to  be  desired  in  this  respect  over  other  sorts  of  fellows,  so 
should  the  best  poet  prove  the  best  lover;  were  women  wise  to  their  in- 
terests they'd  make  seeking  him  out  their  life-work,  and  finding  him  would 
straight  lay  their  favors  a-quiver  in  his  lap— nay,  upon  his  very  writing-desk— 
and  beg  him  to  look  on  'em  kindly!" 

"Out  on't,  thenl"  said  Dick  to  Joan  Toast  "Ben  speaks  truly,  and  'tis 


[  58  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

you  shall  pay  me  two  guineas  this  night!  Marry,  and  were't  not  that  I  am 
poor  as  any  church  mouse  this  week  and  have  not  long  to  live,  you'd  not 
buy  immortality  so  cheap!  My  counsel  is  to  snatch  the  bargain  while  it  lasts, 
for  a  poet  cannot  long  abide  this  world." 

To  which  Joan  rejoined  without  heat,  "Fogh!  Could  any  man  of  ye 
rhyme  as  light  as  talk,  or  swive  grand  as  swagger,  why,  your  verse'd  be  on 
every  lip  in  London  and  your  arse  in  every  bed,  I  swear!  But  Talk  pays  no 
toll:  I  look  to  pacify  nor  ear  nor  bum  with  aught  o'  ye  but  my  sweet  John, 
who  struts  not  a  strut  nor  brags  no  brags,  but  saves  words  for  his  melodies 
and  strength  for  the  bed." 
"Hi!"  applauded  Ben.  "Well  put!" 

"If  ill  timed,"  John  McEvoy  added,  frowning  lightly  upon  her.  "Let  no 
such  sentiments  come  'twixt  thee  and  two  guineas  this  night,  love,  or  thy 
sweet  John'll  have  nor  strength  nor  song,  but  a  mere  rumbly  gut  to  bed  ye 
with  on  the  morrow." 

"  'Sblood!"  remarked  Tom  Trent  without  emotion.  "If  Lady  Joan  reason 
rightly,  there's  one  among  us  who  far  more  merits  her  favor  than  you, 
McEvoy,  for  as  you  speak  one  word  to  our  two,  so  speak  you  ten  to  his  one: 
I  mean  yon  Ebenezer,  who  for  lack  of  words  should  be  chiefest  poet  and 
cocksman  in  this  or  any  winehouse— John  Milton  and  Don  Juan  Tenorio 
in  a  single  skin!" 

"Indeed  he  may  be,"  vowed  Joan,  who,  being  by  chance  seated  next  to 
Ebenezer,  gave  him  a  pat  on  the  hand. 

"At  any  rate,"  smiled  McEvoy,  "having  heard  not  a  line  of  his  making, 
I've  no  evidence  he's  not  a  poet." 

"Nor  I  he's  not  that  other,"  Joan  added  smartly,  "and  'tis  more  praise 
on  both  counts  than  I  can  praise  the  rest  oy  ye."  Then  she  colored  some- 
what and  added:  "I  must  own  I've  heard  it  said,  Many  fat  but  love  lean, 
for  as  how  your  fat  fellow  is  most  often  a  jolly  and  patient  husband,  but 
your  bony  lank  is  long  all  over  and  springy  in  the  bed.  Howbeit,  I've  no 
proof  of  the  thing." 

"Then  'sdeath,  you  shall  have  it!"  cried  Ben  Oliver,  "for  there's  more 
to  extension  than  simple  length.  When  the  subject  in  hand's  the  tool  of 
love,  prithee  give  weight  to  the  matter  of  diameter,  for  diameter's  what 
gives  weight  to  love's  tool-whether  'tis  in  hand  or  in  the  subject,  for  that 
matter!  Nay,  lass,  I'll  stick  by  my  fat,  as't  hath  stuck  by  me.  A  plump  cock's 
the  very  devil  of  the  hen  house,  so  they  say:  he  treads  'em  with  authority!" 
"Tis  too  weighty  a  question  to  leave  unsettled,"  declared  McEvoy. 
"What  think  you,  Tom?" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  59  ] 

"I  take  no  interest  in  affairs  of  the  flesh/'  said  Tom,  "but  I  have  e'er 
observed  that  women,  like  men,  have  chiefest  relish  in  things  forbidden, 
and  prize  no  conquest  like  that  of  a  priest  or  saint.  Tis  my  guess,  moreover, 
that  they  find  their  trophy  doubly  sweet,  inasmuch  as  'tis  hard  come  by  to 
begin  with,  and  when  got  'tis  fresh  and  potent  as  vintage  brandy,  for  having 
been  so  long  bottled  and  corked." 

"Dick?" 

"I  see  no  sense  in  it,"  Merriweather  said.  "  Tis  not  a  man's  weight,  but 
his  circumstances,  that  make  him  a  lover.  The  sweetest  lover  of  all,  I  should 
think,  is  the  man  about  to  end  his  life,  who  would  by  the  act  of  love  bid 
his  adieu  to  this  world,  and  at  the  moment  of  greatest  heat  pass  on  the 
next." 

"Well,  now,"  McEvoy  said,  "ye  owe  it  to  England  to  put  an  answer  to't. 
What  I  propose  is  this,  that  ye  put  each  your  best  foot  forward,  so  to  speak, 
this  same  night,  and  let  Joan  take  eight  guinea  from  him  she  names  loser. 
Thus  the  winner  gets  glory  for  him  and  his  kind  and  a  swiving  to  boot; 
the  losers  get  still  a  swiving— ay,  a  double  swiving!— and  my  good  woman 
and  I  get  chops  instead  of  chitterlings  for  a  day.  Done?" 

"Not  I,"  said  Tom.  "  Tis  a  sorry  sport,  is  lust,  that  makes  man  a  slavering 
animal  on  embracing  his  mistress  and  a  dolorous  vegetable  after." 

"Nor  I,"  said  Dick,  "for  had  I  eight  guineas  I'd  hire  three  trollops  and  a 
bottle  of  Madeira  for  one  final  debauch  ere  I  end  my  life." 

"Marry,  'tis  done  for  all  o'  me,"  said  Ben,  "and  heartily,  too,  for  your 
Joan's  had  none  of  old  Ben  these  two  months  past." 

"Nor  shall  I  more,"  swore  Joan  cheerfully,  "for  thou'rt  a  sweatbox  and 
a  stinkard,  sir.  My  memory  of  our  last  will  serve  as  your  performance,  when 
I  came  away  bruised  and  abused  as  a  spaniel  bitch  from  a  boar's  pen,  and 
had  need  of  a  course  of  liniments  to  drive  out  the  aches  and  a  course  of 
hot  baths  to  carry  off  the  smell.  For  the  rest  of  the  wager,  'tis  Mr.  Cooke's 
to  yea  or  nay." 

"So  be't,"  shrugged  Ben,  "though  had  I  known  at  the  time  'twas  that 
studding  I'd  be  judged  by,  you'd  have  found  me  more  bull  than  boar  and 
haply  have  a  Minotaur  to  show  for't.  What  say  you,  Ebenezer?" 

Now  Ebenezer  had  followed  this  raillery  intently  and  would  have  joined 
in  it,  perhaps,  but  that  from  his  overstocked  wardrobe  no  particular  style 
came  readily  to  hand.  Then,  when  Joan  Toast  touched  him,  the  hand  she 
touched  tingled  as  if  galvanized,  and  on  the  instant  Ebenezer  felt  his 
soul  rise  up  in  answer.  Had  not  Boyle  shown,  and  Burlingame  taught, 
that  electrical  attraction  takes  place  in  a  vacuum?  Well,  here  was  Boyle 


[  60  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

figured  in  the  empty  poet:  the  pert  girl  worked  some  queer  attraction  in 
him,  called  forth  a  spark  from  the  vacuum  of  his  character,  and  set  him  all 
suddenly  a-burn  and  a-buzz. 

But  did  this  prick-up  afford  the  man  identity?  On  the  contrary:  as  he 
saw  the  direction  the  twitting  took  and  heard  McEvoy  give  birth  to  the 
wager,  he  but  buzzed  and  burned  the  more;  his  mind  ran  madly  to  no 
end  like  a  rat  in  a  race  and  could  not  engage  the  situation.  His  sensibility 
all  erected  and  hard  at  attention,  he  could  feel  the  moment  coming  when 
the  eyes  of  all  would  swing  to  bear  on  him  with  some  question  which  he'd 
be  expected  to  answer.  It  was  the  wait  for  it,  together  with  the  tingle  of 
Joan  Toast's  touch  and  the  rush  to  find  a  face  to  meet  the  wager  with,  that 
made  him  sick  when  his  ears  heard  Ben's  "What  say  you,  Ebenezer?"  and 
his  two  eyes  saw  ten  look  to  him  for  reply. 

What  say?  What  say?  His  windpipe  glotted  with  a  surfeit  of  alternatives; 
but  did  he  urge  one  up  like  a  low-pressured  belch,,  the  suck  of  the  rest 
ungassed  it.  Eyes  grew  quizzical;  smiles  changed  character.  Ebenezer 
reddened,  not  from  embarrassment  but  from  internal  pressure. 

"What  ails  ye,  friend?"  McEvoy. 

"Speak  up,  man!"  Ben  Oliver. 

"'Swounds!  Hell  pop!"  Dick  Merriweather. 

One  Cooke  eyebrow  fluttered.  A  mouth-corner  ticked.  He  closed  and 
unclosed  his  hands  and  his  mouth,  and  the  strain  near  retched  him,  but  it 
was  all  a  dry  heave,  a  false  labor:  no  person  issued  from  it.  He  gaped  and 
sweated. 

"Gah,"  he  said. 

"'Sbloodl"  Tom  Trent.  "He's  ill!  Tis  the  vapors!  The  fellow  wants  a 
clyster!" 

"Ga/i,"  said  Ebenezer  again,  and  then  froze  tight  and  said  no  more,  nor 
moved  a  single  muscle. 

By  this  time  his  behavior  had  been  noticed  by  the  other  patrons  of  the 
winehouse,  and  a  number  of  the  curious  gathered  round  him  where  he  sat, 
now  rigid  as  a  statue. 

"Hi,  there,  throw't  off!"  demanded  one  fellow,  snapping  his  fingers  di- 
rectly before  Ebenezer's  face. 

"'Tis  the  wine  has  dagged  him,  belike,"  a  wag  suggested,  and  tweaked 
the  poet's  nose,  also  without  effect.  "Aye,"  he  affirmed,  "the  lad's  bepickled 
himself  with't.  Mark  ye,  'tis  the  fate  awaits  us  all!" 

"As  you  please,"  declared  Ben  Oliver  with  a  grin;  "I  say  'tis  a  plain  case 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  6l  ] 

of  the  staggering  fearfuls,  and  I  claim  the  victory  by  default,  and  there's  an 
end  on't." 

"Aye,  but  what  doth  it  profit  you?"  Dick  Merriweather  asked. 

"What  else  but  Joan  Toast  this  night?"  laughed  Ben,  slapping  three 
guineas  onto  the  table.  "Upon  your  honor  as  judge,,  John  McEvoy,  will 
you  refuse  me?  Test  my  coins,  fellow:  they'll  ring  true  as  the  next  man's, 
and  there's  three  of  'em." 

McEvoy  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  looked  inquiringly  at  his  Joan. 

"Not  in  a  pig's  arse,"  she  sniffed.  She  flounced  from  her  chair  and  with 
a  wink  at  the  company  flung  her  arms  around  Ebenezer's  neck  and  ca- 
ressed his  cheek. 

"Ah,  me  ducky,  me  dove!"  she  cooed.  "Will  ye  leave  me  to  the  mercies  of 
yon  tub  o'  suet,  to  lard  like  any  poor  partridge?  Save  me,  sirl" 

But  Ebenezer  sat  unmoved  and  unmoving. 

"Tis  no  lardoon  thou'rt  in  for,"  Ben  said.  "Tis  the  very  spit!" 

"Ah!  Ah!"  cried  Joan  as  though  terrified  and,  clambering  onto  Ebene- 
zer's lap,  hid  her  face  in  his  neck.  "I  shake  and  I  shiver!" 

The  company  shouted  with  delight.  Joan  grasped  one  of  Ebenezer's 
large  ears  in  each  hand  and  drew  his  face  nose  to  nose  with  her  own. 

"Carry  me  off!"  she  implored  him. 

"To  the  spit  with  her!"  urged  an  onlooker.  "Baste  the  hussy!" 

"Aye,"  said  Ben,  and  crooked  his  finger  at  her.  "Come  along  now, 
sweetmeat." 

"As  ye  be  a  man  and  a  poet,  Eben  Cooke,"  Joan  scolded,  jumping  to  her 
feet  and  shouting  in  his  ear,  "I  lay  it  upon  ye  to  match  this  rascal's  gold 
with  your  own  and  have  done  with't.  If  ye  will  not  speak  up  and  act  the 
man,  I'm  Ben's  and  be  damned  t'ye!" 

Ebenezer  gave  a  slight  start  and  suddenly  stood  up,  blinking  as  if  just 
roused  from  bed.  His  features  twitched,  and  he  alternately  blushed  and 
paled  as  he  opened  his  mouth  to  speak. 

"I  had  five  guineas  but  this  morning  by  messenger  from  my  father,7'  he 
said  weakly. 

"Thou'rt  a  fool,"  said  Dick  Merriweather.  "She  asks  but  three,  and 
had  you  spoke  sooner  'twould've  cost  you  but  two!" 

"Will  ye  raise  him  two  bob,  Ben?"  asked  John  McEvoy,  who  had  been 
watching  the  proceedings  serenely. 

"Indeed  he  shan't!"  snapped  Joan.  "Is  this  a  horse  auction,  then,  and 
I  a  mare  to  be  rid  by  the  high  bidder?"  She  took  Ebenezer's  arm  fondly. 


[  g2  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Only  match  Ben's  three  guineas,  ducky,  and  speak  no  more  oft  The 
night's  near  done,  and  I  am  ill  o'  this  lewd  raillery." 

Ebenezer  gawked,  swallowed,  and  shifted  his  weight 

"I  cannot  match  it  here,"  he  said,  "for  I've  but  a  crown  in  my  purse."  He 
glanced  around  him  wildly.  "The  money  is  in  my  rooms,"  he  added,  teeter- 
ing as  if  to  swoon.  "Come  with  me  there,  and  you  shall  have't  all" 

"Hello,  the  lad's  no  fool!"  said  Tom  Trent.  "He  knows  a  thing  or  two!" 

"'Sblood,  a  very  Jew!"  agreed  Dick  Merriweather. 

"Better  a  fowl  in  hand  than  two  flying"  Ben  Oliver  laughed,  and  jingled 
his  three  guineas.  "'Tis  a  hoax  and  fraud,  to  lure  honest  women  to  their 
ruin!  What  would  your  father  say,  Ebenezer,  did  he  get  wind  oft?  Shame^ 
shame!" 

"Pay  the  great  ass  no  heed,"  said  Joan. 

Ebenezer  swayed  again,  and  several  of  the  company  tittered. 

"I  swear  to  you "  he  began. 

"Shame!  Shame!"  cried  Ben  once  more,  wagging  a  fat  finger  at  him  to 
the  company's  delight 

Ebenezer  tried  again,  but  could  do  no  more  than  raise  his  hand  and  let 
it  fall. 

"Stand  off!"  someone  warned  uneasily.  "He  is  starching  up  again!" 

"Shame!"  roared  Ben. 

Ebenezer  goggled  at  Joan  Toast  for  a  second  and  then  lurched  full  speed 
across  the  room  and  out  of  the  winehouse. 


7:  THE  CONVERSATION  BETWEEN  EBENEZER  AND 
THE  WHORE  JOAN  TOAST,  INCLUDING  THE  TALE  OF 
THE  GREAT  TOM  LEECH. 


AS  A  RULE  EBENEZER  WOULD  AFTER  SUCH  A  BUMBLE  HAVE  BEEN  IN  FOR 

some  hours  of  motionless  reflection  in  his  room.  It  was  his  habit  (for  such 
rigidities  as  this  at  Locket's  were  not  new  to  him)  upon  recovering  himself 
to  sit  at  his  writing-desk,  looking-glass  in  hand,  and  stare  fish-eyed  at  his 
face,  which  only  during  such  spells  was  still.  But  this  time,  though  he  did 
indeed  take  up  his  vis-a-vis>  the  face  he  regarded  was  anything  but  vacant: 
on  the  contrary,  where  typically  he'd  have  seen  a  countenance  blank  as  an 
owl's,  now  he  saw  a  roil  as  of  swallows  round  a  chimney  pot;  whereas  an- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  63  ] 

other  time  he'd  have  heard  in  his  head  but  a  cosmic  rustle,  as  though 
his  skull  were  a  stranded  wentletrap,  now  he  sweated,  blushed,  and  dreamed 
two  score  ragged  dreams.  He  studied  the  ears  Joan  Toast  had  touched,  as 
though  by  study  to  restore  their  tingle,  and  when  he  could  by  no  means 
succeed,  he  recognized  with  alarm  that  it  was  his  heart  she  now  had 
hands  on. 

"Ah  God/'  he  cried  aloud,  "that  I'd  risen  to  the  wager!" 

The  manly  sound  of  his  voice  arrested  him.  Moreover,  it  was  the  first 
time  he'd  ever  spoken  to  himself  aloud,  and  he  failed  to  be  embarrassed 
by  it. 

"Had  I  but  another  chance,"  he  declared  to  himself,  "'twould  be  no 
chore  to  snatch  the  moment!  Lord,  into  what  ferment  have  those  eyes  put 
me!  Into  what  heat  those  bosoms!" 

He  took  up  the  glass  again,  made  himself  a  face,  and  inquired,  "Who  art 
thou  now,  queer  fellow?  Hi,  there  is  a  twitch  in  thy  blood,  I  see— a  fidget 
in  thy  soul!  Twere  a  right  manly  man  Joan  Toast  would  taste,  were  the 
wench  but  here  to  taste  him!" 

It  occurred  to  him  to  return  to  Locket's  to  seek  her  out,  on  the  chance 
she'd  not  have  succumbed  to  Ben  Oliver's  entreaties.  But  he  was  reluctant 
to  confront  his  friends  so  soon  after  his  flight,  in  the  first  place,  and  in  the 
second 

"Curse  me  for  my  innocence!"  he  railed,  pounding  his  fist  upon  some 
blank  papers  on  the  writing-desk.  "What  knowledge  have  I  of  such  things? 
Suppose  she  should  come  with  me?  'Sblood!  What  then? 

"Yet  'tis  now  or  never,"  he  told  himself  grimly.  "This  Joan  Toast  sees  in 
me  what  no  woman  hath  before,  nor  I  myself:  a  man  like  other  men.  And 
for  aught  I  know  she  hath  made  me  one,  for  when  else  have  I  talked  to 
myself?  When  else  felt  so  potent?  To  Locket's,"  he  ordered  himself,  "or  go 
virgin  to  the  grave!" 

Nevertheless  he  did  not  get  up,  but  lapsed  instead  into  lecherous,  com- 
plicated reveries  of  rescue  and  gratitude;  of  shipwreck  or  plague  and  mutual 
survivorship;  of  abduction,  flight,  and  violent  assault;  and,  sweetest  of  all,  of 
towering  fame  and  casual  indulgence.  When  at  length  he  realized  that  he 
was  not  going  to  Locket's  at  all,  he  was  overcome  with  self-loathing  and 
returned,  in  despair,  once  more  to  the  mirror. 

He  calmed  at  the  sight  of  the  face  in  it. 

"Odd  fellow,  there!  Ooo-ooo/  Hey-nonny-nonny!  Fa-la!" 

He  leered  and  mouthed  into  the  glass  until  his  eyes  brimmed  with  tears, 


[64]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

and  then,  exhausted,  buried  his  face  in  his  long  aims.  Presently  he  fell 
asleep. 

There  came,  an  uncertain  time  later,  a  knocking  at  the  entrance  door 
below,  and  before  Ebenezer  was  awake  enough  to  wonder  at  it,  his  own 
door  was  opened  by  his  servant,  Bertrand,  who  had  been  sent  to  him  just  a 
few  days  earlier  by  his  father.  This  Bertrand  was  a  thin-faced,  wide-eyed 
bachelor  in  his  later  forties  whom  Ebenezer  knew  scarcely  at  all,  for 
Andrew  had  hired  him  while  the  young  man  was  still  at  Cambridge.  With 
him,  when  he  had  come  from  the  St.  Giles  establishment,  he  had  brought 
the  following  note  from  Andrew,  in  an  envelope  sealed  with  wax: 

Ebenezer, 

The  Bearer  of  this  note  is  Bertrand  Burton,  my  Valet  since  1686,  and  now 
yours,  if  you  want  him.  He  is  a  diligent  enough  fellow,  if  something  presump- 
tuous, and  will  make  you  a  good  man  if  you  hold  him  to  his  place.  Mrs  Twigg 
and  he  got  on  ill  together,  to  the  point  where  I  had  either  to  sack  him  or 
lose  her,  without  whom  I  could  scarce  manage  my  house.  Yet  deeming  it  a  hard 
matter  to  sack  the  fellow  outright,  whose  only  fault  is,  that  though  he  never 
forgets  his  work,  he  oft  forgets  his  place,  I  have  promoted  him  out  of  my  service 
into  yours.  I  shall  pay  him  his  first  quarters  wage;  after  that,  if  you  want  him, 
I  presume  your  post  with  Paggen  will  afford  him. 

Though  his  current  wage  from  Peter  Paggen,  which  was  precisely  what 
it  had  been  in  1688,  was  barely  adequate  to  keep  himself,  Ebenezer  none- 
theless had  welcomed  Bertrand's  service,  at  least  for  the  three  months  dur- 
ing which  it  was  to  cost  him  nothing.  Luckily,  the  room  adjoining  his  own 
was  unoccupied  at  the  time,  and  he  had  arranged  with  his  landlord  for 
Bertrand  to  lodge  there,  where  he  was  always  within  call. 

Now  the  man  stepped  into  the  room  in  nightshirt  and  cap,  all  smiles  and 
winks,  said,  "A  lady  to  see  you,  sir/'  and,  to  Ebenezer's  great  surprise, 
ushered  Joan  Toast  herself  into  the  room. 

"I  shall  retire  at  once,"  he  announced,  winking  again,  and  left  them  be- 
fore Ebenezer  could  recover  sufficiently  to  protest.  He  was  extremely 
embarrassed  and  not  a  little  alarmed  at  being  alone  with  her,  but  Joan,  not 
a  whit  disturbed,  came  over  to  where  he  still  sat  at  the  writing  table  and 
bussed  him  lightly  upon  the  cheek. 

"Say  not  a  word/'  she  ordered,  taking  off  her  hat.  "I  know  well  I'm 
tardy,  and  I  ask  your  pardon  for't." 

Ebenezer  sat  dumb,  too  astonished  to  speak.  Joan  strode  blithely  to  the 
windows,  closed  the  curtains,  and  commenced  undressing. 

Tis  your  friend  Ben  Oliver's  to  blame,  with  his  three  guineas,  and  his 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  65  ] 

four  guineas,  and  his  five  guineas,  and  his  great  hands  both  a-clench  to  lay 
hold  on  me!  But  a  shilling  o'er  your  five  he  couldn't  offer,  or  wouldn't,  and 
since  'twas  you  first  offered  it,  I'm  quit  o'  the  brute  with  conscience  clear." 

Ebenezer  stared  at  her,  head  afire. 

"Come  along  now,  sweet,"  Joan  said  presently,  and  turned  to  him 
entirely  unclothed.  "Put  thy  guineas  upon  the  table  and  let's  to  bed. 
Faith,  but  there's  a  nip  in  the  air  this  night!  Brrr!  Jump  to't,  now!"  She 
sprang  to  the  bed  and  snuggled  under  the  coverlets,  drawing  them  up 
around  her  chin. 

"Come  along!"  she  said  again,  a  bit  more  briskly. 

"Ah  God,  I  cannot!"  Ebenezer  said.  His  face  was  rapturous,  his  eyes 
were  wild. 

"Ye  what?"  Joan  cried,  throwing  back  the  covers  and  sitting  up  in  alarm. 

"I  cannot  pay  thee,"  Ebenezer  declared. 

"Not  pay  me!  What  prank  is  this,  sir,  ye  make  me  butt  of,  when  I  have 
put  off  Ben  Oliver  and  his  five  gold  guineas?  Out  with  thy  money  now, 
Master  Cooke,  and  off  with  thy  breeches,  and  prank  me  no  pranks!" 

"Tis  no  prank,  Joan  Toast,"  said  Ebenezer.  "I  cannot  pay  thee  five 
guineas,  or  four  guineas,  or  three.  I  cannot  pay  thee  a  shilling.. Nay,  not  so 
much  as  a  farthing." 

"What!  Are  ye  paupered,  then?"  She  gripped  his  shoulders  as  if  to  shake 
him.  "Marry,  sir,  open  wide  those  great  cow's  eyes,  that  I  may  claw  them 
from  out  their  sockets!  Think  ye  to  make  a  fool  o'  me?"  She  swung  her 
legs  over  the  side  of  the  bed. 

"Nay,  nay,  lady!"  Ebenezer  cried,,  falling  to  his  knees  before  her.  "Nay, 
I  have  the  five  guineas,  and  more.  But  how  price  the  priceless?  How  buy 
Heaven  with  simple  gold?  Ah,  Joan  Toast,  ask  me  not  to  cheapen  thee  so! 
Was't  for  gold  that  silver-footed  Thetis  shared  the  bed  of  Peleus,  Achilles' 
sire?  Think  thee  Venus  and  Anchises  did  their  amorous  work  on  considera- 
tion of  five  guineas?  Nay,  sweet  Joan,  a  man  seeks  not  in  the  market  for  the 
favors  of  a  goddess!" 

"Let  foreign  bawds  run  their  business  as't  please  'em,"  Joan  declared, 
somewhat  calmer.  "  'Tis  five  guineas  the  night  for  this  one,  and  pay  ere  ye 
play.  Do  ye  reckon  it  cheap,  then  pleasure  in  thy  bargain:  'tis  all  one  to 
me.  What  a  temper  ye  put  me  in  with  thy  not  a  farthing!  I  had  near 
leaped  ye!  Come  along,  now,  and  save  thy  conceits  for  a  love  sonnet  in  the 
morning." 

"Ah,  dear  God,  Joan,  wilt  thou  not  see?"  said  Ebenezer,  still  down  upon 
his  knees.  "  'Tis  not  for  common  sport  I  crave  thee,  as  might  another:  such 


[66]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

lechery  I  leave  to  mere  gluttonous  whoremongers  like  Ben  Oliver.  What  I 
crave  of  thee  cannot  be  bought!" 

"Aha/'  smiled  Joan,  "so  'tis  a  matter  o'  strange  tastes,  is't?  Fd  not  have 
guessed  it  by  the  honest  look  o'  ye,  but  think  not  so  quickly  'tis  out  o'  the 
question.  Well  do  I  know  There's  more  -ways  to  the  woods  than  one,  and 
if  t  work  no  great  or  lasting  hurt,  why,  'tis  but  a  matter  o7  price  to  me,  sir. 
Name  me  thy  game,  and  I'll  fix  thee  thy  fee/' 

"Joan,  Joan,  put  by  this  talk!"  cried  Ebenezer,  shaking  his  head,  "Can 
you  not  see  it  tears  my  heart?  What's  past  is  past;  I  cannot  bear  to  think 
on't,  how  much  the  less  hear  it  from  thy  sweet  lips!  Dear  girl,  I  swear  to  thee 
now  I  am  a  virgin,  and  as  I  come  to  thee  pure  and  undefiled,  so  in  my 
mind  you  come  to  me;  whate'er  hath  gone  before,  speak  not  of  it.  Nay!" 
he  warned,  for  Joan's  mouth  dropped  open.  "Nay,  not  a  word  oft,  for  'tis 
over  and  done.  Joan  Toast,  I  love  thee!  Ah,  that  startles  thee!  Aye,  I  swear 
to  Heaven  I  love  thee,  and  'twas  to  declare  it  I  wished  thee  here.  Speak  no 
more  of  your  awful  trafficking,  for  I  love  thy  sweet  body  unspeakably,  and 
that  spirit  which  it  so  fairly  houses,  unimaginably!" 

"Nay,  Mr.  Cooke,  'tis  an  unbecoming  jest  ye  make,  to  call  thyself  virgin," 
Joan  said  doubtfully. 

"As  God  is  my  witness,"  swore  Ebenezer,  "I  have  known  no  woman 
carnally  to  this  night,  nor  ever  loved  at  all." 

"But  how  is  that?"  Joan  demanded.  "Why,  when  I  was  but  a  slip  of  a 
thing,  not  yet  fourteen  and  innocent  of  the  world's  villainy,  I  recall  I  once 
cried  out  at  table  how  I  had  commenced  a  queer  letting  of  blood,  and 
what  was  I  ill  of?  And  send  quick  for  the  leeches!  And  everyone  laughed 
and  made  strange  jests,  but  none  would  tell  me  what  was  the  cause  oft 
Then  my  young  bachelor  uncle  Harold  approached  me  privily,  and  kissed 
me  upon  the  lips  and  stroked  my  hair,  and  told  me  'twas  no  common 
leech  I  wanted,  for  that  I  was  letting  much  blood  already;  but  that  anon 
when  I  had  stopped  I  should  come  to  him  in  secret,  for  he  kept  in  his 
rooms  a  great  torn  leech  such  as  I  had  ne'er  yet  been  bit  by,  the  virtue  of 
which  was,  that  it  would  restore  by  sweet  infusions  what  I  had  lost.  I  be- 
lieved without  question  all  that  he  told  me,  for  he  was  a  great  favorite  o' 
mine,  more  brother  than  uncle  to  me,  and  therefore  I  said  naught  to  any- 
one, but  directly  the  curse  left  me  went  straight  to  his  bedchamber,  as  he 
had  prescribed.  'Where  is  the  great  torn  leech?'  I  asked  him.  4I  have't  ready/ 
said  he,  *but  it  fears  the  light  and  will  do  its  work  only  in  darkness.  Make 
thyself  ready,'  said  he,  'and  I'll  apply  the  leech  where  it  must  go/  *Very  well,' 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [67] 

said  I,  "but  ye  must  tell  me  how  to  ready  myself,  Harold,  for  I  know  naught 
of  leeching/  'Disrobe  thyself/  said  he,  'and  lie  down  upon  the  bed/ 

"And  so  I  stripped  myself  all  naked,  simple  soul  that  I  was,  right  before 
his  eyes,  and  lay  down  upon  the  bed  as  he  directed— a  skinny  pup  I,  as  yet 
unbreasted  and  unfurred— and  he  blew  out  the  candle.  'Ah,  dear  Harold!' 
I  cried.  'Come  lie  beside  me  on  the  bed,  I  pray,  for  I  fear  the  bite  o'  thy 
great  torn  leech  in  the  dark!'  Harold  made  me  no  answer,  but  shortly  joined 
me  upon  his  bed.  'How  is  this?'  I  cried,  feeling  his  skin  upon  me.  'Do  you 
mean  to  take  the  leech  as  well?  Did  you  too  lose  blood?'  'Nay/  he  laughed, 
'  'tis  but  the  manner  whereby  my  leech  must  be  applied.  I  have't  ready  for 
ye,  dear  girl;  are  ye  ready  for't?'  'Nay,  dear  Harold,'  I  cried,  'I  am  fearful! 
Where  will  it  bite  me?  How  will  it  hurt?' '  'Twill  bite  where  it  must/  said 
Harold,  'and  'twill  pain  ye  a  mere  minute,  and  then  pleasure  ye  enough/ 
'Ah,  then,'  I  sighed,  'let  us  get  by  the  pain  and  hasten  the  pleasure  with  all 
speed.  But  prithee  hold  my  hand,  lest  I  cry  out  at  the  creature's  bite/ 
*Ye  shan't  cry  out,'  Harold  said  then,  'for  I  shall  kiss  ye/ 

"And  straightway  he  embraced  me  and  kissed  my  mouth  tight  shut,  and, 
while  we  were  a-kissing,  suddenly  I  felt  the  great  torn  leech  his  fearful  bite, 
and  I  was  maiden  no  more!  At  first  I  wept,  not  alone  from  the  pain  he'd 
warned  of,  but  from  alarm  at  what  I'd  learned  o'  the  leech's  nature.  But  e'en 
as  Harold  promised,  the  pain  soon  flew,  and  his  great  torn  leech  took 
bite  after  bite  till  near  sunup,  by  which  time,  though  I  was  by  no  means 
weary  o'  the  leeching,  my  Harold  had  no  more  leech  to  leech  with,  but  only 
a  poor  cockroach  or  simple  pismire,  not  fit  for  the  work,  which  scurried 
away  at  the  first  light.  Twas  then  I  learned  the  queer  virtue  o'  this  animal: 
for  just  as  a  fleabite,  the  more  ye  scratch  it,  wants  scratching  the  more,  so, 
once  this  creature  had  bit  me,  I  longed  for  futher  bites  and  was  forever  after 
poor  Harold  and  his  leech,  like  an  opium  eater  his  phial.  And  though  since 
then  I've  suffered  the  bite  of  every  sort  and  size— none  more  fearsome  or 
ravenous  than  my  good  John's— yet  the  craving  plagues  me  still,  till  I  shiver 
at  the  thought  o'  the  great  torn  leech!" 

"Stop,  I  beg  thee!"  Ebenezer  pleaded.  "I  cannot  hear  more!  What,  'Dear 
Uncle/  you  call  him,  and  'Poor  Harold'!  Ah,  the  knave,  the  scoundrel, 
to  deceive  you  so,  who  loved  and  trusted  him!  Twas  no  leechery  he  put 
thee  to,  but  lechery,  and  laid  thy  maiden  body  forever  in  the  bed  of  harlotry! 
I  curse  him,  and  his  ilk!" 

"Ye  say't  with  relish,"  smiled  Joan,  "as  one  who'd  do  the  like  with  fire 
in  his  eye  and  sweat  on  his  arse,  could  he  find  himself  a  child  fond  as  I.  Nay, 
Ebenezer,  rail  not  at  poor  dear  Harold,  who  is  these  several  years  under  the 


[  68  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

sod  from  an  ague  got  swiving  ardently  in  cold  chambers.  Says  I,  'tis  but  the 
nature  o'  the  leech  to  bite  and  of  the  leeched  to  want  biting,  and  'tis 
a  mystery  and  astonishment  to  me,  since  so  many  crave  leeching  and  the 
best  leech  is  so  lightly  surfeited,  how  yours  hath  gone  starved,  as  ye  declare, 
these  thirty  years!  What,  are  ye  a  mere  arrant  sluggard,  sir?  Or  are  ye  haply 
o'  that  queer  sort  who  lust  for  none  but  their  own  sex?  Tis  a  thing  past 
grasping!" 

"Nor  the  one  nor  the  other,"  replied  Ebenezer.  "I  am  man  in  spirit  as 
well  as  body,  and  my  innocence  is  not  wholly  my  own  choosing.  I  have 
ere  now  been  ready  enough,  but  to  grind  love's  grain  wants  mortar  as  well 
as  pestle;  no  man  dances  the  morris  dance  alone^  and  till  this  night  no 
woman  e'er  looked  on  me  with  favor." 

"Marry!"  laughed  Joan.  "Doth  the  ewe  chase  the  ram,  or  the  hen  the 
cock?  Doth  the  field  come  to  the  plow  for  furrowing,  or  the  scabbard  to 
the  sword  for  sheathing?  'Tis  all  arsy-turvy  ye  look  at  the  world!" 

"That  I  grant,"  sighed  Ebenezer,  "but  I  know  naught  of  the  art  of 
seduction,  nor  have  the  patience  for't." 

"Fogh!  There's  no  great  labor  to  the  bedding  of  women!  For  the  most, 
all  a  man  need  do,  I  swear,  is  ask  plainly  and  politely,  did  he  but  know  it" 
"How  is  that?"  exclaimed  Ebenezer  in  astonishment  "Are  women  then 
so  lecherous?" 

"Nay,"  said  Joan.  "Think  not  we  crave  a  swiving  pure  and  simple  at  any 
time  as  do  men  always-'tis  oft  a  pleasure  with  us,  but  rarely  a  passion. 
Howbeit,  what  with  men  forever  panting  at  us  like  so  many  hounds  at  a 
salt-bitch,  and  begging  us  put  by  our  virtue  and  give  'em  a  tumble,  and 
withal  despising  us  for  whores  and  slatterns  if  we  do;  or  bidding  us  be 
faithful  to  our  husbands  and  yet  losing  no  chance  to  cuckold  their  truest 
friends;  or  charging  us  to  guard  our  chastity  and  yet  assaulting  it  from  all 
quarters  in  every  alleyway,  carriage,  or  sitting  room;  or  being  soon  bored 
with  us  if  we  show  no  fire  in  swiving  and  yet  sermoning  us  for  sinners  if  we 
do;  inventing  morals  on  the  one  hand  and  rape  on  the  other;  and  in  general 
preaching  us  to  virtue  whilst  they  lure  us  on  to  vice-what  with  the  pull  and 
haul  of  all  this,  I  say,  we  women  are  forever  at  sixes  and  sevens,  all  fussed 
and  rattled  and  torn  'twixt  what  we  ought  and  what  we  would,  and  so 
entirely  confounded,  that  we  never  know  what  we  think  on  the  matter  or 
how  much  license  to  grant  from  one  minute  to  the  next;  so  that  if  a  man 
commence  the  usual  strut,  pat,  and  tweak,  we  may  thrust  him  from  us  (if 
he  do  not  floor  us  and  have  at  us  by  main  strength);  and  if  he  let  us  quite 
alone,  we  are  so  happy  of  the  respite  we  dare  not  make  a  move;  but  should 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  69  ] 

e'er  a  man  approach  us  in  all  honest  friendship,  and  look  upon  us  as  fellow 
humans  and  not  just  a  bum  and  a  bosom,  from  eyes  other  than  a  stud- 
stallion's,  and  after  some  courteous  talk  should  propose  a  cordial  swiving  as 
one  might  a  hand  of  whist  (instead  of  inviting  us  to  whist  as  lecherously  as 
though  to  bed) —if,  I  say,  e'er  a  man  should  learn  to  make  such  a  request  in 
such  a  manner,  his  bed  would  break  'neath  the  weight  of  grateful  women, 
and  he  would  grow  gray  ere  his  time!  But  in  sooth  'twill  never  happen," 
Joan  concluded,  "forasmuch  as  'twould  mean  receiving  a  partner  and  not 
taking  a  vassal:  'tis  not  mere  sport  a  man  lusts  after,  'tis  conquest-— else 
philanderers  were  rare  as  the  plague  and  not  common  as  the  pox.  Do  but 
ask,  Ebenezer,  cordially  and  courteously,  as  ye  would  ask  a  small  favor  from 
a  good  friend,  and  what  ye  ask  shall  rarely  be  refused.  But  ye  must  ask,  else 
in  our  great  relief  at  not  being  hard  pressed  for't,  we  shall  pass  ye  by." 

"Indeed,"  admitted  Ebenezer,  shaking  his  head,  "it  had  not  struck  me 
ere  now,  what  a  sad  lot  is  woman's.  What  beasts  we  are!" 

"Ah,  well,"  sighed  Joan,  "  'tis  small  concern  o'  mine,  save  when  I  reflect 
on't  now  and  again:  a  whore  loses  little  sleep  on  such  nice  questions.  So 
long  as  a  man  hath  my  price  in  his  purse  and  smells  somewhat  more  sweet 
than  a  tanyard  and  leaves  me  in  peace  come  morning,  I  shan't  say  him 
nay  nor  send  him  off  ill-pleased  with  his  purchase.  And  I  love  a  virgin  as  a 
child  loves  a  new  pup,  to  make  him  stand  and  beg  for't*  or  lie  and  play 
dead.  Off  your  knees,  then,  and  to  bed  with  ye,  ere  ye  take  a  quartan  ague 
from  the  draught!  There's  many  a  trick  I'll  teach  ye!" 

So  saying  she  held  out  her  arms  to  him,  and  Ebenezer,  breaking  at  once 
into  sweat  and  goose  bumps  from  the  contest  between  his  ardor  and  the 
cold  March  draughts  in  which  for  a  quarter  hour  he'd  been  kneeling, 
embraced  her  fervently. 

"Dear  God,  is't  true?"  he  cried.  "What  astonishment  it  is,  to  be  granted 
all  suddenly  in  fact  what  one  hath  yearned  for  time  out  of  mind  in  dreams! 
Dear  heart,  what  a  bewilderment!  No  words  come!  My  arms  fail  me!" 

"Let  not  thy  purse  fail  thee,"  Joan  remarked,  "and  for  the  rest,  leave't 
to  me." 

"But  'fore  God  I  love  thee,  Joan  Toast!"  Ebenezer  moaned.  "Can  it  be 
you  think  yet  of  the  filthy  purse?" 

"Do  but  pay  me  my  five  guineas  ere  ye  commence,"  Joan  said,  "and  then 
love  me  'fore  God  or  man,  'tis  all  one  to  me," 

"You  will  drive  me  to  Bedlam  with  your  five  guineas!"  Ebenezer  shouted. 
"I  love  thee  as  never  man  loved  woman,  I  swear't,  and  rather  would  I 
throttle  thee,  or  suffer  myself  throttled,  than  turn  my  love  to  mere 


[y0]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

whoremongering  with  that  accursed  five  guineas!  I  will  be  thy  vassal;  I 
will  fly  with  thee  down  the  coasts  of  earth;  I  will  deliver  soul  and  body  into 
thy  hands  for  very  love;  but  I  will  not  take  thee  for  my  whore  while  breath 
is  in  me!" 

"Ah,  then,  'tis  after  all  a  fraud  and  deceit!"  Joan  cried,  her  eyes  flashing. 
'Te  think  to  gull  me  with  thee's  and  thy's  and  your  prattle  o'  love  and 
chastity!  I  say  pay  me  my  fee,  Eben  Cooke,  or  I'll  leave  ye  this  minute  for 
ever  and  all;  and  'tis  many  the  hour  ye'll  curse  your  miserliness,  when  word 
oft  reaches  my  Johnny  McEvoy!" 

"I  cannot/'  Ebenezer  said. 

"Then  know  that  I  despise  ye  for  a  knave  and  fool!"  Joan  jumped  from 
the  bed  and  snatched  up  her  garments. 

"And  know  that  I  love  thee  for  my  savior  and  inspiration!"  Ebenezer 
replied.  "For  ne'er  till  you  came  to  me  this  night  have  I  been  a  man, 
but  a  mere  dotting  oaf  and  fop;  and  ne'er  till  I  embraced  thee  have  I 
been  a  poet,  but  a  shallow  coxcomb  and  poetaster!  With  thee,  Joan, 
what  deeds  could  I  not  accomplish!  What  verse  not  write!  Nay,  e'en  should 
you  scorn  me  in  your  error  and  ne'er  look  on  me  more,  I  will  love  thee 
nonetheless,  and  draw  power  and  purpose  from  my  love.  For  so  strong 
is't,  that  e'en  unrequited  it  shall  sustain  and  inspire  me;  but  should  God 
grant  thee  wit  to  comprehend  and  receive  it  and  return  it  as  then  you 
would  perforce,  why,  the  world  would  hear  such  verses  as  have  ne'er  been 
struck,  and  our  love  would  stand  as  model  and  exemplar  to  all  times!  Scorn 
me,  Joan,  and  I  shall  be  a  splendid  fool,  a  Don  Quixote  tilting  for  his 
ignorant  Dulcinea;  but  I  here  challenge  thee— if  you've  life  and  fire  and 
wit  enough,  love  me  truly  as  I  love  thee,  and  then  shall  I  joust  with  bona 
fide  giants  and  bring  them  low!  Love  me,  and  I  swear  to  thee  this:  I  shall 
be  Poet  Laureate  of  England!" 

"Methinks  thou'rt  a  Bedlamite  already,"  Joan  snapped,  hooking  up  her 
dress.  "As  for  my  ignorance,  I  had  rather  be  fool  than  scoundrel,  and  yet 
rather  scoundrel  than  madman,  and  in  sooth  I  believe  thou'rt  all  three  in 
one  skin.  Mayhap  I'm  dolt  enough  not  to  grasp  this  grand  passion  ye  make 
such  claim  to,  but  I've  mother  wit  enough  to  see  when  I'm  hoaxed  and 
cheated.  My  John  shall  hear  oft." 

"Ah  Joan,  Joan!"  Ebenezer  pleaded.  "Are  you  then  indeed  unworthy? 
For  I  declare  to  thee  solemnly:  no  man  will  e'er  offer  thee  another  such 
love." 

"Do  but  offer  me  my  rightful  fee,  and  I'll  say  not  a  word  to  John:  the 
rest  o'  your  offer  ye  may  put  back  in  your  hat." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  Jl  ] 

"So,"  sighed  Ebenezer,  still  transported,  "you  are  unworthy!  So  be't,  ift 
must:  I  love  thee  no  less  for't,  or  for  the  sufferings  I  shall  welcome  in 
thy  name!" 

"May  ye  suffer  French  pox,  ye  great  ass!"  Joan  replied,  and  left  the  room 
in  a  heat. 

Ebenezer  scarcely  noted  her  departure,  so  full  was  he  of  his  love;  he 
strode  feverishly  about  the  bedchamber,  hands  clasped  behind  his  back, 
pondering  the  depth  and  force  of  his  new  feeling.  "Am  I  waked  to  the 
world  from  a  thirty-year  sleep?"  he  asked  himself.  "Or  is't  only  now  I've 
begun  to  dream?  Surely  none  awake  e'er  felt  such  dizzy  power,  nor  any 
man  in  dreams  such  bursting  life!  Hi!  A  song!" 

He  ran  to  his  writing-desk,  snatched  up  his  quill,  and  with  little  ado 
penned  the  following  song: 

Not  Priam  for  the  ravagd  Town  of  Troy, 

Andromache  for  her  bouncing  Baby  Boy, 
Ulysses  for  his  chaste  Penelope, 

Bare  the  Love,  dear  Joan,  I  bear  for  Theel 

But  as  cold  Semele  pritfd  Endymion, 

And  Phaedra  sweet  Hippolytus  her  Step-Son, 

He  being  Virgin — so,  I  pray  may  Ye 

Whom  I  love,  love  my  stainless  Chastity. 

For  'tis  no  niggard  Gift,  my  Innocence, 

But  one  that,  giv'n,  defieth  Recompense; 
No  common  Jewel  pluck' d  from  glist'ring  Hoard, 

But  one  that,  taken,  ne'er  can  be  restored. 

Preserv'd,  my  Innocence  preserveth  Me 

From  Life,  from  Time,  from  Death,  from  History; 

Without  it  I  must  breathe  Man's  mortal  Breath: 

Commence  a  Life — and  thus  commence  my  Death! 

When  he  was  done  composing  he  wrote  at  the  bottom  of  the  page 
Ebenezer  Cooke,  Gent.,  Poet  and  Laureate  of  England,  just  to  try  the 
look  of  it,  and,  regarding  it,  was  pleased. 

"  Tis  now  but  a  question  of  time,"  he  rejoiced.  "Faith,  'tis  a  rare  wise 
man  knows  who  he  is:  had  I  not  stood  firm  with  Joan  Toast,  I  might  well 
ne'er  have  discovered  that  knowledge!  Did  I,  then,  make  a  choice?  Nay, 
for  there  was  no  I  to  make  it!  'Twas  the  choice  made  me:  a  noble  choice, 
to  prize  my  love  o'er  my  lust,  and  a  noble  choice  bespeaks  a  noble  chooser. 
What  am  I?  What  am  I?  Virgin,  sir!  Poet,  sir!  I  am  a  virgin  and  a  poet;  less 


[  72  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

than  mortal  and  more;  not  a  man,  but  Mankind!  I  shall  regard  my  innocence 
as  badge  of  my  strength  and  proof  of  my  calling:  let  her  who's  worthy  oft 
take  it  from  me!" 

Just  then  the  servant  Bertrand  tapped  softly  on  the  door  and  entered, 
candle  in  hand,  before  Ebenezer  had  a  chance  to  speak. 

"Should  I  retire  now,  sir?"  he  asked,  and  added  with  an  enormous  wink, 
"Or  will  there  be  more  visitors?" 

Ebenezer  blushed.  "Nay,,  nay,  go  to  bed." 

'Very  good,  sir.  Pleasant  dreams." 

"How's  that?" 

But  Bertrand,  with  another  great  wink,  closed  the  door. 

"Really,"  Ebenezer  thought,  "the  fellow  is  presumptuous!"  He  returned 
to  the  poem  and  reread  it  several  times  with  a  frown. 

"Tis  a  gem,"  he  admitted,  "but  there  wants  some  final  touch,  .  ,  ? 

He  scrutinized  it  line  for  line;  at  Bare  the  Love,  dear  Joan,  1  bear  for 
Thee  he  paused,  furrowed  his  great  brow,  pursed  his  lips,  squinted  his  eye% 
tapped  his  foot,  and  scratched  his  chin  with  the  feather  of  his  quill. 

"Hm,"  he  said. 

After  some  thought,  he  inked  his  quill  $nd  struck  out  Joan,  setting  in  its 
place  the  word  Heart.  Then  he  reread  the  whole  poem. 

"  'Twas  the  master  touch!"  he  (declared  with  satisfaction.  "The  piece  is 
perfect." 


8:  A  COLLOQUY  BETWEEN  MEN  OF  PRINCIPLE,  AND 
WHAT  CAME  OF  IT 


WHEN  HE   HAD   DONE   REVISING   HIS   POEM  EBENEZER   t*AID    IT   ON   HIS 

night  table,  undressed,  went  to  bed,  and  presently  resumed  the  sleep  that 
Joan  Toast's  visit  had  interrupted,  for  the  day's  events  had  quite  fatigued 
him.  But  again  his  sleep  was  fitful— this  time  it  was  excitement  and  not 
despair  that  bothered  him— and,  as  before,  it  was  short-lived:  he  had  been 
beneath  his  quilts  no  more  than  an  hour  before  he  was  waked  once  again 
by  a  loud  knocking  at  the  door,  which  he'd  forgot  to  latch  after  Joan's 
departure. 

"Who  is't?"  he  called.  "Bertrand!  Someone's  knocking!" 

Before  he  could  make  a  light,  or  even  get  up  from  the  bed*  the  door 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [73] 

was  opened  roughly,  and  John  McEvoy,  lantern  in  hand,  strode  into  the 
room.  He  stood  beside  the  bed  and  held  the  light  close  to  Ebenezer's  face. 
Bertrand,  apparently,  was  asleep,  for  to  Ebenezer's  slight  distress  he  failed 
to  appear. 

"My  five  guineas,  if  ye  please,"  McEvoy  demanded  calmly,  holding  out 
his  other  hand. 

Ebenezer  broke  at  once  into  a  mighty  sweat,  but  he  contrived  to  ask 
hoarsely,  from  the  bed,  "How  is't  I  owe  you  money?  I  cannot  recall  buying 
aught  of  you." 

"Ye  do  but  prove  your  ignorance  of  the  world,"  declared  McEvoy,  "for 
the  first  principle  o'  harlotry  is,  that  what  a  man  buys  of  a  whore  is  not  so- 
much  her  bum  but  her  will  and  her  time;  when  ye  hire  my  Joan  'tis  neither 
her  affair  nor  mine  what  use  ye  make  o'  her,  so  long  as  ye  pay  yer  fee.  As't 
happens,  ye  chose  to  talk  in  lieu  of  swiving;  'twas  a  fool's  choice,  but  'tis 
your  privilege  to  play  the  fool  if  t  please  ye.  Now,  sir,  my  five  guineas!" 

"Ah,  my  friend,"  said  Ebenezer,  reminding  himself  grimly  of  his  identity, 
"'tis  only  fair  to  tell  you,  if  haply  Joan  did  not:  I  love  her  wondrously!" 

"  'Tis  all  one,  so  ye  pay  your  fee,"  replied  McEvoy. 

"That  I  cannot,"  Ebenezer  said.  "Your  own  reasoning  in  the  matter 
rules  it  out.  For  if  'tis  true,,  as  you  declare,  that  'tis  the  rental  of  her  will 
and  time  that  makes  a  woman  whore,  then  to  pay  you  for  what  of  her 
time  she  spent  here  would  make  her  my  whore  though  I  did  not  touch  her 
carnally.  And  make  her  my  whore  I  will  not— nay,  not  were  I  racked  for't! 
I  bear  you  no  ill  will,  John  McEvoy,  nor  must  you  think  me  miserly:  I've 
gold  enough,  and  no  fear  of  parting  with  it." 

"Then  pay  your  fee,"  said  McEvoy. 

"My  dear  man,"  Ebenezer  smiled,  "will  you  not  take  five— nay,  six 
guineas  from  me  as  an  outright  gift?" 

"Five  guineas,  as  a  fee,"  repeated  McEvoy. 

"Where's  the  difference  to  you,  should  I  call  the  sum  a  gift  and  not  a 
payment?  'Twill  fetch  no  less  in  the  market,  I  pledge  you!" 

"If't  makes  no  difference,"  replied  McEvoy,  "then  call  it  the  fee  for  Joan 
Toast's  whoring." 

"Think  not  it  makes  no  difference  to  me"  Ebenezer  said.  "To  me  'tis 
all  the  difference!  No  man  makes  a  whore  of  the  woman  he  loves,  and  I 
love  Joan  Toast  as  never  man  loved  woman." 

"Out  on't!"  McEvoy  scoffed.  "Everything  ye  say  proves  ye  know  naught 
whatever  concerning  love.  Think  not  ye  love  Joan  Toast,  Mr.  Cooke:  'tis 
your  love  ye  love,  and  that's  but  to  say  'tis  yourself  and  not  my  Joan.  But  no 


[  74  I  1™  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

matter— love  her  or  swive  her,  so  ye  pay  your  fee.  To  no  man  save  myself 
may  she  be  aught  but  whore;  I  am  a  jealous  man,  sir,  and  though  ye  may 
purchase  my  Joan's  will  and  time  as  client,  ye  mayn't  court  it  as  lover." 

"'Sbody,  'tis  a  passing  odd  jealousy,  I  swear't!"  Ebenezer  exclaimed. 
"I  ne'er  have  heard  its  like!" 

"Which  is  to  say,  ye  know  naught  o'  love,"  said  McEvoy. 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head  and  declared,  "I  cannot  grasp  it*  Great  heavens,, 
man,  this  divine  creature,  this  vision  of  all  that's  fair  in  womankind,  this 
Joan  Toast— she  is  your  mistress!  How  is't  you  can  allow  men  e'en  to  lay 
their  eyes  upon  her,  much  less " 

"Much  less  much  more?  How  clear  it  is  ye  love  yourself  and  not  Joan! 
There's  naught  o'  the  divine  in  Joan,  my  friend.  She's  mortal  clay  and 
hath  her  share  o'  failings  like  the  rest  of  us.  As  for  this  vision  ye  speak  of, 
'tis  the  vision  ye  love,  not  the  woman.  'Twere  impossible  it  could  be  other- 
wise, for  none  o'  ye  save  I  e'en  knows  the  woman." 

"And  yet  you  play  her  pimp!" 

McEvoy  laughed.  "I  shall  tell  ye  a  thing  about  yourself,  Eben  Cooke, 
and  haply  ye'll  recall  it  now  and  again:  'tis  not  simply  love  ye  know  naught 
of,  'tis  the  entire  great  red  worldl  Your  senses  fail  ye;  your  busy  fancy  plays 
ye  false  and  fills  your  head  with  foolish  pictures.  Things  are  not  as  ye  see 
'em,  friend— the  world's  a  tangled  skein,  and  all  is  knottier  than  ye  take  it 
for.  You  understand  naught  o'  life:  I  shan't  say  more."  He  drew  a  document 
from  his  pocket  and  gave  it  to  Ebenezer.  "Read  it  with  haste  and  pay  your 
fee. 

Ebenezer  unfolded  the  paper  and  read  it  with  mounting  consternation. 
It  was  headed  To  Andrew  Cooke,  2nd,  Gent,  and  commenced  thus: 

My  dear  Sir, 

It  is  my  unhappy  duty  to  bring  to  your  notice  certain  regrettable  matters  con- 
cerning the  behavior  of  your  Son  Ebenezer  Cooke.  .  .  . 

The  note  went  on  to  declare  that  Ebenezer  was  spending  his  days  and 
nights  in  the  wine-  and  coffee-houses  and  the  theaters,  drinking,  whoring, 
and  writing  doggerel,  and  that  he  was  making  no  effort  whatever  to  find  an 
instructive  post  for  himself  as  he  had  been  directed.  It  concluded: 

I  bring  this  lamentable  state  of  affairs  to  your  attention,  not  alone  because 
it  is  your  right  as  young  Cooke's  Father  to  know  them,  but  also  because 
the  young  man  in  question  hath  added  to  his  other  vices,  that  of  luring  young 
women  into  his  bedchamber  on  promise  of  generous  remuneration,  only  to 
default  on  payment  afterwards. 

As  agent  for  one  such  defrauded  young  lady,  I  find  myself  Mr.  Cooke's  creditor 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  75  ] 

in  the  amount  of  five  guineas,  which  debt  he  refuses  to  honor  despite  the  most 
reasonable  pleas.  I  feel  certain  that,  as  the  Gentleman's  father,  you  will  be 
interested  in  the  settlement  of  this  debt  either  directly,  by  forwarding  me  the 
young  lady's  fee,  or  indirectly,  by  persuading  your  son  to  settle  it  before  the 
matter  receives  a  more  general  notoriety.  Waiting  for  communication  from 
you  upon  the  business,  I  am,  sir, 

yr  Hmble  &  Ow  Svt, 
John  McEvoy 

"'Sblood,  'tis  my  mini"  Ebenezer  murmured,  when  he  had  read  it 
through. 

"Aye,  if  posted,"  agreed  McEvoy.  "Do  but  pay  your  fee,  and  'tis  yours 
to  destroy.  Else  I  mean  to  post  it  at  once." 

Ebenezer  closed  his  eyes  and  sighed. 

"Doth  the  thing  so  much  matter  to  ye?"  smiled  McEvoy. 

"Aye.  And  doth  it  to  you?" 

"Aye.  It  must  be  whore-money." 

Ebenezer  caught  sight  of  his  poem  in  the  lantern-light.  His  features 
commenced  their  customary  dance,,  and  then,  calming,  he  turned  to  face 
McEvoy. 

"It  cannot  be,"  he  said.  "That  is  my  final  word  on't.  Post  thy  tattling 
letter  if  you  will." 

"I  shall,"  declared  McEvoy,  and  rose  to  leave. 

"And  append  this  to't,  if  you've  a  mind  to,"  Ebenezer  added.  Tearing 
off  the  signature  Ebenezer  Cooke,  Gent.,  Poet  &  Laureate  of  England,  he 
handed  McEvoy  the  poem. 

"Such  bravery,"  smiled  his  visitor,  scanning  it.  "What  is  this?  And 
Phaedra  sweet  Hippolytus  her  Step-Son?  Ye  rhyme  Endymion  and  Step- 
Son?" 

Ebenezer  paid  his  critic  no  heed.  "Twill  at  least  belie  your  charge  that 
I  write  doggerel,"  he  said. 

"Endymion  and  Step-Son"  McEvoy  repeated,  mating  a  face.  "Belie't, 
ye  say?  Marry,,  sir,  'twill  confirm  it  past  question!  Were  I  in  your  boots  I'd 
pay  my  whore-money  and  consign  letter,  Endymion,  Step-Son,  and  all  to 
the  fire."  He  returned  the  poem  to  Ebenezer.  "Will  ye  not  reconsider?" 

"Nay." 

"Ye'll  go  to  Maryland  for  a  whore?" 

"I'd  not  cross  the  street  for  a  whore,"  Ebenezer  said  firmly,  ^ut  I  shall 
cross  the  ocean  for  a  principle!  To  you,  haply,  Joan  Toast  is  a  whore;  to  me 
she  is  a  principle." 


[  y6  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"To  me  she  is  a  woman,"  replied  McEvoy.  "To  you  she's  a  hallucination." 

"What  manner  of  artist  are  you,"  scorned  Ebenezer,  "that  cannot  see 
the  monstrous  love  which  fires  me?" 

"What  manner  of  artist  you,"  retorted  McEvoy,  "that  can't  see  through 
it?  And  are  ye  in  sooth  a  virgin,  as  Joan  Toast  swears?" 

"And  a  poet,"  Ebenezer  declared  with  new  serenity.  "Now  begone,  an't 
please  you.  Do  your  worst!" 

McEvoy  scratched  his  nose  in  amusement.  "I  will,"  he  promised,  and 
went  out,  leaving  his  host  in  total  darkness. 

Ebenezer  had  remained  in  bed  throughout  the  conversation,  for  at  least 
three  reasons:  first,  he  had  retired  after  Joan  Toast's  departure  clothed  in  no 
warmer  nightshirt  than  his  own  fair  skin,  and,  not  so  much  from  prudishness 
as  from  shyness,  he  was  reluctant  to  expose  himself  before  another  man, 
even  his  valet,  though  not  always  (as  shall  be  seen)  before  a  woman;  second, 
even  had  this  not  been  the  case,  McEvoy  had  given  him  little  opportunity 
to  get  up;  and  third,  it  was  Ebenezer's  ill  fortune  to  be  endowed  with  a 
nervous  system  and  a  rational  faculty  that  operated  as  independently  of 
each  other  as  two  Londoners  of  wholly  various  temperament  who  chance 
to  inhabit  the  same  rooming  house,  but  go  blithely  each  his  separate  way 
without  thought  of  his  neighbor:  no  matter  how  firm  his  resolve,  as  regards 
both  Joan  Toast  and  his  new-found  essences,  any  strong  emotion  tended 
to  soak  him  with  sweat,  to  rob  him  of  muscle  if  not  voice,  and  to  make 
him  sick.  Given  both  the  determination  and  the  opportunity,  he  still  could 
scarcely  have  accomplished  sitting  up. 

His  bedclothes  were  wet  with  perspiration;  his  stomach  churned.  When 
McEvoy  was  gone  he  sprang  out  of  bed  to  latch  the  door  against  further 
visitors,  but  immediately  upon  standing  erect  was  overcome  by  nausea  and 
had  to  run  for  the  commode  across  the  room.  As  soon  as  he  was  able  he 
slipped  into  his  nightshirt  and  called  for  Bertrand,  who  this  time  appeared 
almost  at  once,  wigless  and  gowned.  In  one  hand  he  held  a  bare  wax  candle, 
in  the  other  its  heavy  pewter  holder, 

"The  fellow  is  gone,"  Ebenezer  said.  "  Tis  safe  to  show  thyself."  Still 
weak  in  the  knees,  he  sat  at  his  writing-desk  and  held  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"Lucky  for  hjlm  he  held  his  temperl"  Bertrand  said  grimly,  brandishing 
his  candleholder. 

Ebenezer  smiled.  "Was't  thy  intent  to  rap  on  the  wall  for  silence  if  he 
didn't?" 

"On  his  arrogant  pate,  sir!  I  stood  just  without  your  door  the  entire 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [77] 

while,  for  fear  he'd  leap  you,  and  only  jumped  inside  my  room  when  he 
left,  for  fear  he'd  spy  me." 

"For  fear  in  sooth!  Did  you  not  hear  my  call?" 

"I  own  I  did  not,  sir,  and  beg  your  pardon  for't.  Had  he  knocked  below 
like  any  gentleman,  he'd  ne'er  have  got  by  me  on  that  errand,  I  swear!  Twas 
your  voices  waked  me,  and  when  I  caught  the  drift  of  your  talk  I  dared  not 
intrude  for  fear  of  presuming,  or  leave  for  fear  he'd  assault  you/' 

"Marry,  Bertrand!"  Ebenezer  said.  "Thou'rt  the  very  model  of  a  servant! 
You  heard  all,  then?" 

"  Twas  farthest  from  my  mind  to  eavesdrop,"  Bertrand  protested,  '"but 
I  could  scarce  avoid  the  substance  oft.  What  a  cheat  and  blackguard  the 
pimp  is,  to  ask  five  guinea  for  a  tart  you  spent  not  two  hours  with!  For  five 
guinea  I  could  fill  thy  bed  with  trollops!" 

"Nay,  'tis  no  cheat;  McEvoy  is  as  honest  a  man  as  I.  Twas  a  collision  of 
principles,  not  a  haggle  over  price."  He  went  to  fetch  a  robe.  "Will  you 
make  up  the  fire,  Bertrand,  and  brew  tea  for  both  of  us?  I've  small  hope  of 
sleep  this  night," 

Bertrand  lit  the  lamp  from  his  candle,  put  fresh  wood  in  the  fireplace, 
and  blew  up  the  embers  in  the  grate. 

"How  can  the  wretch  harm  you?"  he  asked.  "  Tis  unlikely  a  pimp  could 
press  a  law-suit!" 

"He  hath  no  need  of  the  courts.  Tis  but  a  matter  of  telling  my  father  of 
the  affair,  and  off  I  go  to  Maryland." 

"For  a  simple  business  with  a  strumpet,  sir?  Marry,  thou'rt  not  a  child, 
nor  Master  Andrew  any  cleric!  I  beg  your  pardon  for't,  sir,  but  your  home- 
place  is  no  popish  convent,  if  I  may  say  so!  There's  much  goes  on  there 
that  Miss  Anna  and  yourself  know  naught  of,  nor  old  Twigg,  either,  for  all 
her  sniffs  and  snoops." 

Ebenezer  frowned.  "How's  that?  What  in  Heav'n  do  you  mean,  fellow?" 
*  "Nay,  nay,  spare  your  anger;  marry,  I  yield  to  none  in  respect  for  your 
father,  sir!  I  meant  naught  by't  at  all,  save  that  Master  Andrew  is  a  natural 
man,  if  you  follow  me,  like  thee  and  me;  a  lusty  fellow  despite  his  age,  and 
—no  disrespect  intended— he's  long  a  widower.  A  servant  sees  things  now 
and  again,  sir." 

"A  servant  sees  little  and  fancies  much,"  Ebenezer  said  sharply.  "Is't 
your  suggestion  my  father's  a  whoremonger?" 

"  'Sblood,  sir,  nothing  of  the  sort!  He's  a  great  man  and  an  honest,  is 
Master  Andrew,  and  I  pride  myself  on  having  his  confidence  these  many 
years.  Tis  no  accident  he  chose  me  to  come  to  London  with  you,  sir:  I've 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 


managed  business  of  some  consequence  for  him  ere  now  that  Mrs.  Twigg 
for  all  her  haughty  airs  knew  naught  of/' 

"See  here,  Bertrand,"  Ebenezer  demanded  with  interest,  "are  you  saying 
you've  been  my  father's  pimp?" 

"I'll  speak  no  more  oft,  sir,  an  it  please  thee,  for  it  seems  thou'rt  out  of 
sorts  and  put  an  ill  construction  on  my  words.  All  I  meant  to  say  in  the 
world  was  that  were  I  in  thy  place  I'd  not  pay  a  farthing  for  all  the 
scoundrel's  letters  to  your  father.  The  man  who  says  he  ne'er  hath  bought 
a  swiving  must  needs  be  either  fairy  or  castrato,  if  he  be  not  a  liar,  and 
Master  Andrew's  none  o'  the  three.  Let  the  rascal  say  'tis  a  vice  with  thee; 
I'll  swear  on  oath  'twas  the  first  you've  been  a-whoring,  to  my  knowledge. 
No  disgrace  in  that/'  He  gave  Ebenezer  a  cup  of  tea  and  stood  by  the  fire 
to  drink  his  own. 

"Perhaps  not,  even  if  'twere  true." 

"I'm  certain  oft,"  Bertrand  said,  gaining  confidence.  "You  had  your  tart 
as  any  man  might,  and  there's  an  end  on't  Her  pimp  asked  more  than  her 
worth,  and  so  you  sent  him  packing.  I'd  advise  thee  to  pay  him  not  a 
farthing  for  all  his  trumpeting,  and  Master  Andrew  would  agree  with  me." 

"Belike  you  misheard  me  through  the  door,  Bertrand/'  Ebenezer  said. 
"I  did  not  swive  the  girl." 

Bertrand  smiled.  "Ah,  now,  'twas  a  clever  enough  stand  to  take  with  the 
pimp,  considering  he  roused  you  up  ere  you'd  time  to  think;  but  'twill  ne'er 
fool  Master  Andrew  for  a  minute/' 

"Nay,  'tis  the  simple  truth!  And  e'en  had  I  done  so  I  would  not  pay  him 
a  ha'penny  for't.  I  love  the  girl  and  shan't  buy  her  for  a  harlot/' 

<0"N°W'  that  one  hath  the  touch  of  greatness  in  it/'  Bertrand  declared 
"Tis  worthy  of  the  cleverest  blade  in  London!  But  speaking  as  your 
adviser  -  " 

"My  adviser!  Thou'rt  my  adviser?" 

Bertrand  shifted  uneasily.  "Aye,  sir,  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  you  under- 
stand.  As  I  said  before,  I  pride  myself  that  your  father  trusts  me  _  " 

"Did  Father  send  you  to  me  as  a  governess?  Do  you  report  my  doings 
to  him?" 

t  "Nay,  nay!"  Bertrand  said  soothingly.  "I  only  meant,  as  I  said  before, 
tas  clearly  no  accident  he  named  me  and  no  other  to  attend  ye,  sir.  I  pride 
myself  'tis  a  sign  of  his  faith  in  my  judgment.  I  merely  meant  'twas  clever 
to  tell  the  punp  thou'rt  in  love  with  his  tart  and  shan't  cheapen  her;  but 
it  ye  repeat  the  tale  to  Master  Andrew  'twere  wise  to  make  clear  'twas  but 
a  gambit,  so  as  not  to  alarm  him." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  t  79  1 

"You  don't  believe  it?  Nor  that  I  am  a  virgin?" 

"Thou'rt  a  great  tease,  sir!  I  only  question  whether  thy  father  would 
understand  raillery." 

"I  see  thou'rt  not  to  be  convinced,"  Ebenezer  said,  shaking  his  head. 
"No  matter,  I  suppose.  Tis  not  the  business  of  five  guineas  will  undo  me 
anyhow,  but  the  other." 

"Another?  Marry,  what  a  rascal!" 

"Nay,  not  another  wench;  another  business.  Haply  'twill  interest  you,  as 
my  adviser:  McEvoy's  tattling  letter  describes  my  place  at  Peter  Paggen's, 
that  hath  not  improved  these  five  years." 

Bertrand  set  down  his  cup.  "My  dear  sir,  pay  him  his  rascally  guineas." 

Ebenezer  smiled.  "What?  Permit  the  wretch  to  overcharge  me?" 

"I've  two  guinea  laid  by,  sir,  in  a  button  box  in  my  chest.  'Tis  thine 
toward  the  debt.  Only  let  me  run  to  pay  him,  ere  he  posts  his  foul  letter." 

"Thy  charity  gladdens  me,,  Bertrand,  and  thy  concern,  but  the  principle 
is  the  same.  I  shan't  pay  it." 

"Marry,  sir,  then  I  must  off  to  a  Jew  for  the  other  three  and  pay  it  myself, 
though  he  hold  liver  and  lights  for  collateral.  Master  Andrew  will  have  my 
head!" 

"  Twill  avail  thee  naught.  Tis  not  five  guineas  McEvoy  wants,  but  five 
guineas  from  my  hand  as  whore-money." 

"I'faith,  then  I'm  lost!" 

"How  so?" 

"When  Master  Andrew  learns  how  ill  ye've  minded  his  direction  he'll 
sack  me  for  certain,  to  punish  ye.  What  comfort  hath  the  adviser?  If  things 
go  well  'tis  the  student  gets  the  praise;  if  ill,  'tis  the  adviser  gets  the  blame/' 

"Tis  in  sooth  a  thankless  office,"  Ebenezer  said  sympathetically.  He 
yawned  and  stretched.  "Let  us  sleep  out  the  balance  of  the  night,  now.  Thy 
conversation  is  a  marvelous  soporific." 

Bertrand  showed  no  sign  of  understanding  the  remark,  but  he  rose  to 
leave. 

"You'll  see  me  sacked,  then,  ere  you  pay  the  debt?" 

"I  doubt  me  such  a  priceless  adviser  will  be  sacked,"  Ebenezer  replied. 
"Belike  he'll  send  thee  off  with  me  to  Maryland,  to  advise  me." 

"Gramercy,  sir!  Thou'rt  jesting!" 

"Not  at  all." 

"  'Sheart!  To  perish  at  the  hands  of  salvages!" 

"Ah,  as  for  that,  two  of  us  can  fight  'em  better  than  one.  Good  night, 
now."  So  saying,  he  sent  Bertrand  terrified  to  his  room  and  attempted,  by 


[  80  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

a  childish  habit  he  had  of  rolling  from  side  to  side  in  his  bed,  to  lull  himself 
to  sleep.  But  his  fancy  was  too  much  occupied  with  versions  of  the  imminent 
confrontation  of  his  father  and  himself—versions  the  details  of  which  he 
altered  and  perfected  with  an  artist's  dispassionate  care— to  allow  him  more 
than  a  restless  somnolence. 

As  it  turned  out,  there  was  no  confrontation  at  all,  though  St.  Giles 
was  but  an  easy  carriage  ride  from  where  he  lived.  On  the  evening  of  the 
second  day  after  McEvoy's  threat,  a  messenger  came  to  Ebenezer's  room 
(from  which,  having  abandoned  Peter  Paggen  entirely,  he  had  scarcely 
ventured  in  two  days)  with  twelve  pounds  in  cash  and  a  brief  letter  from 
Andrew: 

My  Son:  It  is  truly  said,  that  Children  are  a  certain  Care,  and  but  an  uncertain 
Comfort.  Suffice  it  to  say,  I  have  learned  of  your  vicious  Condition;  I  shall  not 
sully  myself  by  witnessing  it  firsthand.  You  shall  on  Pain  of  total  and  entire 
Disinheritance  and  Disownment  take  Ship  for  Maryland  on  the  Bark  Poseidon, 
sailing  from  Plimouth  for  Piscataway  on  April  i,  there  to  proceed  straightway 
to  Cookes  poynt  and  assume  Managership  of  Maiden.  It  is  my  intention  to 
make  a  final  Sojourn  in  the  Plantations  perhaps  a  Year  hence,  and  I  pray  that 
at  that  Time  I  shall  find  a  prosperous  Maiden  and  a  regenerate  Son:  an  Estate 
worth  bequeathing  and  an  Heir  worth  the  Bequest.  It  is  your  final  Chance. 

Your  Father 

Ebenezer  was  more  numbed  than  stunned  by  the  letter,  for  he'd  antic- 
ipated some  such  ultimatum. 

"Marry,  'tis  but  a  week  hence!'7  he  reflected  with  alarm.  The  notion 
of  leaving  his  companions  just  when,  having  determined  his  essence,  he 
felt  prepared  to  begin  enjoying  them,  distressed  him  quite;  whatever  fugitive 
attraction  the  colonies  had  held  for  him  fled  before  the  prospect  of  actually 
going  there. 

He  showed  the  letter  to  Bertrand. 

"Ah,  'tis  as  I  thought:  thy  principles  have  undone  me,  I  see  no  summons 
here  to  my  old  post  in  St.  Giles," 

"Haply  'twill  come  yet,  Bertrand,  by  another  messenger/' 

But  the  servant  appeared  unconsoled,  TfaithI  Back  to  old  Twigg!  I  had 
almost  rather  brave  the  salvage  Indians." 

"I  would  not  see  thee  suffer  on  my  account,"  Ebenezer  declared,  "I 
shall  pay  your  April's  wages,  and  you  may  start  today  to  seek  another  post" 

The  valet  seemed  scarcely  able  to  believe  such  generosity,  "Bless  ye,  sir! 
Thou'rt  every  inch  a  gentlemanl" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  8l  ] 

Ebenezer  dismissed  him  and  returned  to  his  own  problem.  What  was 
he  to  do?  During  most  of  that  day  he  anxiously  examined  various  faces  of 
himself  in  his  looking  glass;  during  most  of  the  next  he  composed  stanzas 
to  Gloom  and  Melancholy,  after  the  manner  of  II  Penseroso  (though 
briefer  and,  he  decided,  of  a  different  order  of  impact);  the  third  he 
spent  abed,  getting  up  only  to  feed  and  relieve  himself.  He  refused 
Bertrand's  occasional  proffered  services.  A  change  came  over  him:  his  beard 
went  unshaved,  his  drawers  unchanged,  his  feet  unwashed.  How  take  ship 
for  the  wild  untutored  colonies,  now  he  knew  himself  a  poet  and  was  ready 
to  fire  London  with  his  art?  And  yet  how  make  shift  unaided  in  London, 
penniless,  in  defiance  of  his  father  and  at  the  expense  of  his  inheritance? 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  he  asked  himself,  lying  unkempt  in  his  bed  on  the 
fourth  day.  It  was  a  misty  March  morning,  though  a  warm  and  sunny  one, 
and  the  glaring  haze  from  outside  caused  his  head  to  ache.  The  bedclothes 
were  no  longer  clean,  nor  was  his  nightshirt.  His  late  fire  was  ashed  and 
cold.  Eight  o'clock  passed,  and  nine,  but  he  could  not  resolve  to  get  up. 
Once  only,  as  a  mere  experiment,  he  held  his  breath  in  order  to  try 
whether  he  could  make  himself  die,  for  he  saw  no  alternative;  but  after 
a  half  minute  he  drew  air  frantically  and  did  not  try  again.  His  stomach 
rumbled,  and  his  sphincters  signaled  their  discomfort.  He  could  think  of 
no  reason  for  rising  from  the  bed,  nor  any  for  remaining  there.  Ten  o'clock 
came  and  went. 

Near  noon,  running  his  eyes  about  the  room  for  the  hundredth  time 
that  morning,  he  caught  sight  of  something  that  had  previously  escaped 
him:  a  scrap  of  paper  on  the  floor  beside  his  writing-desk.  Recognizing  it, 
he  climbed  out  of  bed  without  thinking,  fetched  it  up,  and  squinted  at 
it  in  the  glare, 

Ebenezer  Cooke,  Gent.,  "Poet  &  Laureate.  .  .  ; 

The  rest  of  the  epithet  was  torn  off,  but  despite  its  loss,  or  perhaps  be- 
cause of  it,  Ebenezer  was  suddenly  inspired  with  such  a  pleasant  resolve 
that  his  spirits  rose  on  the  instant,  driving  three  days'  gloom  before  them 
as  a  March  breeze  drives  away  squalls.  His  spine  thrilled;  his  face  flushed. 
Lighting  on  a  piece  of  letter  paper,  he  addressed  a  salutation  directly  to 
Charles  Calvert,  Third  Lord  Baltimore  and  Second  Lord  Proprietary  of 
the  Province  of  Maryland.  Your  Excellency,  he  wrote,  with  the  same  sure 
hand  of  some  nights  before: 

It  is  my  Intention  to  take  Ship  for  Maryland  upon  the  Bark  Poseidon  a  few 
Days  hence,  for  the  Purpose  of  managing  my  Father's  Property,  called  Cooke' s 
Point,  in  Dorchester.  Yr  LdshP  will  do  me  a  great  Honour,  and  Himself  no 


[  82  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

ill  Turn  it  may  be,  by  granting  me  an  Audience  before  I  embark,  in  order  that 
I  might  discuss  certain  Plans  of  mine,  such  that  I  venture  will  not  altogether 
displease  Yr  LdsllP,  and  in  order  farther  that  I  might  learn,  from  Him  most 
qualified  to  say,  where  in  the  Province  to  seek  the  congenial  Company  of 
Men  of  Breeding  and  Refinement,  with  whom  to  share  my  leisure  Hours  in 
those  most  civiliz'd  Pursuits  of  Poetry,  Music  and  Conversation,  without  which 
Life  were  a  Salvag'ry,  and  scarce  endurable.  Respectfully  therefore  awaiting 
Yr  LdshP«  Reply,  I  am, 

Yr  Most  HmWe  &  Obt  Svt, 
Ebenezer  Cooke 

And  after  but  a  moment's  deliberation  he  appended  boldly  to  his  name 
the  single  word  Poet,  deeming  it  a  pointless  modesty  to  deny  or  conceal 
his  very  essence. 

"By  Heav'n!"  he  exclaimed  to  himself,  looking  back  on  his  recent 
doldrums.  "I  had  near  slipped  once  again  into  the  Abyss!  Methinks  'tis  a 
peril  I  am  prone  to:  'tis  my  Nemesis,  and  marks  me  off  from  other  men 
as  did  the  Furies  poor  Orestes!  So  be't:  at  least  I  know  my  dread  Erinyes 
for  what  they  are  and  will  henceforth  mark  their  approach  betimes.  What 
is  more— thank  Joan  Toast!— I  now  know  how  to  shield  myself  from  their 
assault/'  He  consulted  his  mirror  and  after  some  false  starts,  reflected  this 
reflection:  "Life!  I  must  fling  myself  into  Life,  escape  to't,  as  Orestes  to 
the  temple  of  Apollo.  Action  be  my  sanctuary;  Initiative  my  shield!  I  shall 
smite  ere  I  am  smitten;  clutch  Life  by  his  horns!  Patron  of  poets,  thy 
temple  be  the  Entire  Great  Real  World,  whereto  I  run  with  arms  a-stretch: 
may't  guard  me  from  the  Pit,  and  may  my  Erinyes  sink  'neath  the  vertigo 
I  flee  to  be  transformed  to  mild  Eumenides!" 

He  then  reread  his  letter. 

"Aye,"  he  said,  "read  and  rejoice,  Baltimore!  Tis  not  every  day  your 
province  is  blessed  with  a  poet.  But  faith!  Tis  already  the  twenty-seventh 
of  the  month!  I  must  deliver't  in  person  at  once." 

Tius  resolved,  Ebenezer  called  for  Bertrand  and,  finding  him  not  at 
home,  doffed  his  malodorous  nightshirt  and  proceeded  to  dress  himself. 
Not  bothering  to  trouble  his  skin  with  water,  he  slipped  on  his  best  linen 
drawers,  short  ones  without  stirrups,  heavily  perfumed,  and  a  clean  white 
day-shirt  of  good  frieze  holland,  voluminous  and  soft,  with  a  narrow  neck- 
band, full  sleeves  caught  at  the  wrists  with  black  satin  ribbon,  and  small, 
modestly  frilled  cuifs.  Next  he  pulled  on  a  pair  of  untrimmed  black  velvet 
knee  breeches,  close  in  the  thighs  and  full  in  the  seat,  and  then  his  knitted 
white  silk  hose,  which,  following  the  very  latest  fashion,  he  left  rolled  above 
the  knee  in  order  to  display  the  black  ribbon  garters  that  held  them  up. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  83  ] 

On  then  with  his  shoes,  a  fortnight  old,  of  softest  black  Spanish  leather, 
square-toed,  high-heeled,  and  buckled,  their  cupid-bow  tongues  turned 
down  to  flash  a  fetching  red  lining.  Respectful  of  both  the  warmth  and 
the  fashion  of  the  day,  he  left  his  waistcoat  where  it  hung  and  donned 
next  a  coat  of  plum-colored  serge  lined  with  silver-gray  prunella— the  great 
cuffs  turned  back  to  show  alternate  stripes  of  plum  and  silver— collarless, 
tight-shouldered,  and  full-skirted,  which  he  left  unbuttoned  from  neck  to 
hem  to  show  off  shirt  and  cravat.  This  latter  was  of  white  muslin,  the  long 
pendant  ends  finished  in  lace,  and  Ebenezer  tied  it  loosely,  twisted  the 
pendants  ropewise,  and  fetched  up  the  ends  to  pass  through  the  top  left 
buttonhole  of  his  open  coat,  Steinkirk  fashion.  Then  came  his  short-sword 
in  its  beribboned  scabbard,  slung  low  on  his  left  leg  from  a  well-tooled  belt, 
and  after  it  his  long,  tight-curled  white  periwig,  which  he  powdered  gener- 
ously and  fitted  with  care  on  his  pate,  in  its  natural  state  hairless  as  an  egg. 
Nothing  now  remained  but  to  top  the  periwig  with  his  round-crowned, 
broad-brimmed,  feather-edged  black  beaver,  draw  on  his  gauntlet  gloves  of 
fawn  leather  stitched  in  gold  and  silver  (the  cuffs  edged  in  white  lace 
and  lined  with  yellow  silk),  fetch  up  his  long  cane  (looped  with  plum- 
and-white  ribbons  like  those  on  his  scabbard),  and  behold  the  finished 
product  in  his  looking  glass. 

"  'Sbodikins!"  he  cried  for  very  joy.  "What  a  rascal!  En  garde,  London! 
Look  lively,  Life!  Have  at  ye!" 

But  there  was  little  time  to  admire  the  spectacle:  Ebenezer  hurried  out 
to  the  street,  hired  himself  the  services  of  barber  and  bootblack,  ate  a  hearty 
meal,  and  took  hack  at  once  for  the  London  house  of  Charles  Calvert, 
Lord  Baltimore. 


9:    EBENEZER'S  AUDIENCE  WITH  LORD  BALTIMORE, 
AND  HIS  INGENIOUS  PROPOSAL  TO  THAT  GENTLEMAN 


TO  HIS  EXTREME  DELIGHT  AND  CONSIDERABLE  SURPRISE,   IN  A  MATTER 

of  minutes  after  Ebenezer  had  presented  himself  at  Lord  Baltimore's  town 
house  and  had  sent  his  message  in  by  a  house-servant,  word  was  sent  back 
to  him  that  Charles  would  receive  the  visitor  in  his  library,  and  Ebenezer 
was  ushered  not  long  afterwards  into  the  great  man's  presence. 
Lord  Baltimore  was  seated  in  an  enormous  leather  chair  beside  the  hearth, 


[  84  ]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

and,  though  he  did  not  rise  to  greet  his  visitor,  he  motioned  cordially  for 
Ebenezer  to  take  the  chair  opposite  him.  He  was  an  old  man,  rather  small- 
framed  and  tight-skinned  despite  his  age,  with  a  prominent  nose,  a  thin 
white  mustache,  and  large,  unusually  bright  brown  eyes;  he  looked,  it  oc- 
curred to  Ebenezer,  like  an  aged  and  ennobled  Henry  Burlingame.  He 
was  dressed  more  formally  and  expensively  than  Ebenezer,  but— as  the  latter 
observed  at  once— not  so  fashionably:  in  fact,  some  ten  years  behind  the 
times.  His  wig  was  a  campaigner,  full  but  not  extremely  long,  its  tight  curls 
terminating  before  either  shoulder  in  pendulous  corkscrewed  dildos;  his 
cravat  was  of  loosely-tied,  lace-edged  linen;  his  coat  was  rose  brocade  lined 
with  white  alamode,  looser  in  the  waist  and  shorter  in  the  skirt  than  was 
the  current  preference,  and  the  unflapped  pockets  were  cut  horizontally 
rather  than  vertically  and  set  low  to  the  hem.  The  sleeves  reached  nearly 
to  the  wrists,  returned  a  few  inches  to  show  their  white  linings  stitched  in 
silver,  and  opened  at  the  back  with  rounded  hound's-ear  corners.  The 
side  vents,  cut  hip  high,  were  edged  with  silver  buttons  and  sham  button- 
holes, and  the  right  shoulder  boasted  a  knot  of  looped  silver  ribbons.  Be- 
neath the  coat  were  a  waistcoat  of  indigo  armozine,  which  he  wore  com- 
pletely buttoned,  and  silk  breeches  to  match:  one  saw  no  more  of  his 
shirt  than  the  dainty  cuffs  of  white  cobweb  lawn.  What  is  more,  his  garters 
were  hidden  under  the  roll  of  his  hose,  and  the  tongues  of  his  shoes  were 
high  and  square.  He  held  Ebenezer's  letter  in  his  hand  and  squinted  at 
it  in  the  dim  light  from  the  heavily-curtained  windows  as  though  re-exam- 
ining its  contents. 

"Ebenezer  Cooke,  is't?"  he  said  by  way  of  commencing  the  conversa- 
tion. "Of  Cooke's  Point,  in  Dorchester?"  His  voice,  while  still  in  essence 
forceful,  had  that  uncertain  flutter  which  betrays  the  onset  of  senility. 
Ebenezer  bowed  slightly  in  acknowledgment  and  took  the  chair  indicated 
by  his  host. 

"Andrew  Cooke's  son?"  asked  Charles,  peering  at  his  guest. 

"The  same,  sir,"  Ebenezer  replied, 

"I  knew  Andrew  Cooke  in  Maryland,"  reflected  Charles.  "If  memory 
serves  me  rightly,  'twas  in  1661,  the  year  my  father  made  me  Governor  of 
the  Province,  that  I  licensed  Andrew  Cooke  to  trade  there.  But  I've  not 
seen  him  for  many  years  and  haply  wouldn't  know  him  now,  or  he  me." 
He  sighed.  "Life's  a  battle  that  scars  us  all,  victor  and  vanquished  alike." 

"Aye,"  Ebenezer  agreed  readily,  "but  'tis  the  stuff  of  living  to  fight  it, 
and  take't  by  storm,  and  your  good  soldier  wears  his  scars  with  pride,  win 
or  lose,  so  he  got  'em  bravely  in  honest  combat." 

"I  doubt  not,"  murmured  Charles,  and  retreated  to  the  letter.  "How's 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  85  ] 

this,  now/'  he  remarked:  "Ebenezer  Cooke,  Poet.  What  might  that  mean, 
pray?  Can  it  be  you  earn  your  bread  by  versifying?  Or  you're  a  kind  of 
minstrel,  belike,  that  wanders  about  the  countryside  a-begging  and  recit- 
ing? Tis  a  trade  I  know  little  of,  I  confess't" 

"Poet  I  am,"  answered  Ebenezer  with  a  blush,  "and  no  mean  one  it 
may  be;  but  not  a  penny  have  I  earned  by't,  nor  will  I  ever.  The  muse 
loves  him  who  courts  her  for  herself  alone,  and  scorns  the  man  who'd  pimp 
her  for  his  purse's  sake." 

"I  daresay,  I  daresay,"  said  Charles.  "But  is-t  not  customary,  when  a  man 
tack  some  bunting  to  his  name  to  wave  like  a  pendant  in  the  public  breeze, 
that  he  show  thereby  his  calling  and  advertise  it  to  the  world?  Now,  did 
I  read  here  Ebenezer  Cooke,  Tinker,  I'd  likely  hire  you  to  patch  my  pots; 
if  Ebenezer  Cooke,  Physician,  I'd  send  you  the  rounds  of  my  household, 
to  purge  and  tonic  the  lot;  if  Ebenezer  Cooke,  Gentleman,  br  Esquire,  I'd 
presume  you  not  for  hire,,  and  ring  in  my  man  to  fetch  you  brandy.  But 
Poet,  now:  Ebenezer  Cooke,  Poet.  What  trade  is  that?  How  doth  one  deal 
with  you?  What  work  doth  one  put  you  to?" 

"  Tis  that  very  matter  I  wish  to  speak  of,"  said  Ebenezer,  unruffled  by 
the  twitting.  "Know,  sir,  that  though  'tis  no  man's  living  to  woo  the  muse, 
'tis  yet  some  men's  calling,  and  so  'twas  not  recklessly  I  tacked  on  my  name 
the  title  Poet:  'tis  of  no  moment  what  I  do;  poet  is  what  I  am." 

"As  another  might  sign  himself  Gentleman?"  asked  Charles. 

"Precisely." 

"Then  'tis  not  for  hire  you  sought  me  out?  You  crave  no  employment?* 

"Hire  I  do  not  seek,"  Ebenezer  declared.  "For  as  the  lover  craves  of  his 
beloved  naught  save  her  favor,  which  to  him  is  reward  sufficient,  so  craves 
the  poet  no  more  from  his  muse  than  happy  inspiration;  and  as  the  fruit 
of  lover's  labor  is  a  bedded  bride,  and  the  sign  oft  a  crimsoned  sheet,  so 
the  poet's  prize  is  a  well-turned  verse,  and  the  sign  thereof  a  printed  page. 
To  be  sure,  if  haply  the  lass  bring  with  her  some  dowry,  'twill  not  be  scorned, 
nor  will  what  pence  come  poetwards  from,  his  publishing.  Howbeit,  these 
are  mere  accidents,  happy  but  unsought." 

"Why,  then,"  said  Charles,  fetching  two  pipes  from  a  rack  over  the  fire- 
place, "I  believe  we  may  call't  established  that  you  are  not  for  hire.  Let's 
have  a  pipe  on't,  and  then  pray  state  your  business." 

The  two  men  filled  and  lit  their  pipes,  and  Ebenezer  returned  to  his 
theme. 

"Hire  I  care  naught  for,"  he  repeated,  "but  as  for  employment,  there's 
another  matter  quite,  and  the  very  sum  and  substance  of  my  visit.  You 
enquired  a  moment  past,  What  trade  is  the  poet's,  and  to  what  work 


[86]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

shall  he  be  put?  For  answer  let  me  ask  you,  sir,  by'r  leave— would  the  world 
at  large  know  aught  of  Agamemnon,  or  fierce  Achilles,  or  crafty  Odysseus, 
or  the  cuckold  Menelaus,  or  that  entire  circus  of  strutting  Greeks  and 
Trojans,  had  not  great  Homer  rendered  'em  to  verse?  How  many  battles 
of  greater  import  are  lost  in  the  dust  of  history,  d'you  think,  for  want  of 
a  poet  to  sing  'em  to  the  ages?  Full  many  a  Helen  blooms  one  spring  and 
goes  to  the  worm  forgot;  but  let  a  Homer  paint  her  in  the  grand  cosmetic 
of  his  verse,  and  her  beauty  boils  the  blood  of  twenty  centuries!  Where  lies 
a  Prince's  greatness,  I  ask  you?  In  his  feats  on  the  field  of  battle,  or  the 
downy  field  of  love?  Why,  'tis  but  a  generation's  work  to  forget  'em  for 
good  and  all!  Nay,  I  say  'tis  not  in  the  deeds  his  greatness  lies,  but  in 
their  telling.  And  who's  to  tell  'em?  Not  the  historian,  for  be  he  ne'er  so 
dev'lish  accurate,  as  to  how  many  hoplites  had  Epaminondas  when  he 
whipped  the  Spartans  at  Leuctra,  or  what  was  the  Christian  name  of 
Charlemagne's  barber,  yet  nobody  reads  him  but  his  fellow  chroniclers  and 
his  students— the  one  from  envy,  t'other  from  necessity.  But  place  deeds 
and  doer  in  the  poet's  hands,  and  what  comes  oft?  Lo,  the  crook'd  nose 
grows  straight,  the  lean  shank  fleshes  out,  French  pox  becomes  a  bedsore; 
shady  deeds  shed  their  tarnish,  bright  grow  brighter;  and  the  whole  is 
musicked  into  tuneful  rhyme,  arresting  conceit,  and  stirring  meter,  so's  to 
stick  in  the  head  like  Greensleeves  and  move  the  heart  like  Scripture!" 

"Tis  clear  as  day,"  said  Charles  with  a  smile,  "that  the  poet  is  a  useful 
member  of  a  Prince's  train." 

"And  what's  true  for  a  prince  is  true  for  a  principality,"  Ebenezer  went 
on,  stirred  by  his  own  eloquence.  "What  were  Greece  without  Homer, 
Rome  without  Virgil,  to  sing  their  glories?  Heroes  die,  statues  break,  em- 
pires crumble;  but  your  Iliad  laughs  at  time,  and  a  verse  from  Virgil  still 
rings  true  as  the  day  'twas  struck.  Who  renders  virtue  palatable  like  the  poet, 
and  vice  abhorrent,  seeing  he  alone  provides  both  precept  and  example? 
Who  else  bends  nature  to  suit  his  fancy  and  paints  men  better  or  worse 
to  suit  his  purpose?  What  sings  like  lyric,  praises  like  panegyric,  mourns 
like  elegiac,  wounds  like  Hudibrastic  verse?" 

"Naught,  that  I  can  name,"  said  Charles,  "and  you  have  quite  persuaded 
me  that  a  man's  most  useful  friend  and  fearsome  foe  is  the  poet.  Prithee 
now,  fellow,  dispense  with  farther  preamble  and  deliver  me  your  business 
plainly/' 

"Very  well,"  said  Ebenezer,  planting  his  cane  between  his  knees  and 
gripping  its  handle  firmly.  "Would  you  say,  sir,  that  Maryland  boasts  a  sur- 
feit of  poets?" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  87  ] 

"A  surfeit  of  poets?"  repeated  Charles,  and  drew  thoughtfully  upon  his 
pipe.  "Well,  now,  since  you  ask,  I  think  not.  Nay,  in  good  faith  I  must 
confess,  entre  nous,  there  is  no  surfeit  of  poets  in  Maryland.  Not  a  bit  oft. 
Why,  Fd  wager  one  might  walk  the  length  and  breadth  of  St.  Mary's  City 
on  a  May  afternoon  and  not  cross  the  tracks  of  a  single  poet,  they're  that 
rare." 

"As  I  reckoned/'  said  Ebenezer.  "Would  you  go  so  far  as  to  suppose, 
even,  that  I  might  be  hard  put  to't,  once  I  establish  myself  in  Maryland, 
to  find  me  four  or  five  fellow-planters  to  match  a  couplet  with,  or  trade 
a  rhyme?" 

"  Tis  not  impossible,"  admitted  Charles. 

"I  guessed  as  much.  And  now,  sir,  if  I  might:  would't  be  mere  gross 
presumption  and  vanity  for  me  to  suppose,  that  haply  I  shall  be  the  ab- 
solute first,  premier,  unprecedented,  and  genuine  original  poet  to  set  foot 
on  the  soil  of  Terra  Marine?  First  to  pay  court  to  the  Maryland  Muse?" 

"  'Tis  not  in  me  to  deny,"  replied  Charles,  "that  should  there  breathe 
such  a  wench  as  this  Maryland  Muse,  you  may  well  have  her  maidenhead." 

"Faith!"  cried  Ebenezer  joyously.  "Only  think  on't!  A  province,  an  en- 
tire people— all  unsung!  What  deeds  forgot,  what  gallant  men  and  women 
lost  to  time!  'Sblood,  it  dizzies  me!  Trees  felled,  towns  raised,  a  very  nation 
planted  in  the  wilds!  Foundings,  strugglings,  triumphs!  Why,  'tis  work  for 
a  Virgil!  Think,  m'lord,  only  think  on't:  the  noble  house  of  Calvert,  the 
Barons  Baltimore— builders  of  nations,  bringers  of  light,  fructifiers  of  the 
wilderness!  A  glorious  house  and  history  still  unmusicked  for  the  world's 
delight!  Marry,  'tis  virgin  territory!" 

"Many's  the  fine  thing  to  be  said  of  Maryland,"  Charles  agreed.  "But 
to  speak  plainly,  I  fear  me  that  virgins  are  rare  as  poets  there." 

"Prithee  do  not  jest!"  begged  Ebenezer.  "  'Twere  an  epic  such  as  ne'er 
was  penned!  The  Marylandiad,  b'm'faith!" 

"How's  that?"  For  all  his  teasing  manner,  Charles  had  grown  thoughtful 
in  the  course  of  Ebenezer's  outburst. 

"The  Marylandtad!"  repeated  Ebenezer,  and  declaimed  as  from  a  title- 
page:  "An  epic  to  out-epic  epics:  the  history  of  the  princely  house  of  Charles 
Calvert,  Lord  Baltimore  and  Lord  Proprietary  of  the  Province  of  Maryland, 
relating  the  heroic  founding  of  that  province!  The  courage  and  persever- 
ance of  her  settlers  in  battling  barb'rous  nature  and  fearsome  salvage  to 
wrest  a  territory  from  the  wild  and  transform  it  to  an  earthly  paradise!  The 
majesty  and  enlightenment  of  her  proprietors,  who  like  kingly  gardeners 
fostered  the  tender  seeds  of  civilization  in  their  rude  soil,  and  so  hus- 


[  88  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

banded  and  cultivated  them  as  to  bring  to  fruit  a  Maryland  beauteous  be- 
yond description;  verdant,  fertile,  prosperous,  and  cultured;  peopled  with 
brave,  men  and  virtuous  women,  healthy,  handsome,  and  refined:  a  Mary- 
land, in  short,  splendid  in  her  past,  majestic  in  her  present,  and  glorious 
in  her  future^  the  brightest  jewel  in  the  fair  crown  of  England,  owned  and 
ruled  to  the  benefit  of  both  by  a  family  second  to  none  in  the  recorded 
history  of  the  universal  world— the  whole  done  into  heroic  couplets,  printed 
on  linen,  bound  in  calf,  stamped  in  gold"— here  Ebenezer  bowed  with  a 
flourish  of  his  beaver— "and  dedicated  to  Your  Lordship!" 

"And  signed?"  asked  Charles. 

Ebenezer  rose  to  his  feet  and  beamed  upon  his  host,  one  hand  on  his 
cane  and  the  other  on  his  hip. 

"Signed  Ebenezer  Cooke,  Gentleman,"  he  replied:  "Poet  and  Laureate 
of  the  Province  of  Maryland!" 

"Ah,"  said  Charles.  "Poet  and  Laureate,  now:  'tis  a  new  bit  of  bunting 
you'd  add  to  your  name." 

"Only  think  how  'twould  redound  to  Your  Lordship's  credit,"  urged 
Ebenezer.  "The  appointment  would  prove  at  a  single  stroke  both  the 
authority  and  the  grace  of  your  rule,  for  'twould  give  the  Province  the 
flavor  of  a  realm  and  the  refinement  of  a  court  to  have  a  bona  fide  laureate 
sing  her  praises  and  record  in  verse  her  great  moments;  and  as  for  the 
Marylandiad  itself,  'twould  immortalize  the  Barons  Baltimore,  and  make 
Aeneases  of  'em  all!  Moreover,  'twould  paint  the  Province  as  she  stands 
today  in  such  glowing  colors  as  to  lure  the  finest  families  of  England  to 
settle  there;  'twould  spur  the  inhabitants  to  industry  and  virtue,  to  keep 
the  picture  true  as  I  paint  it;  in  sum,  'twould  work  to  the  enhancement 
of  both  the  quality  and  the  value  of  the  colony,  and  so  proportionately 
ennoble,  empower,  and  enrich  him  who  owns  and  rules  her!  Is't  not  a 
formidable  string  of  achievements?" 

At  this  Charles  burst  into  such  a  fit  of  laughing  that  he  choked  on  his 
pipe  smoke,  watered  at  the  eyes,  and  came  near  to  losing  his  campaigner; 
it  required  the  spirited  back-thumping  of  two  body  servants,  who  stood 
nearby,  to  restore  his  composure. 

"Oh  dear!"  he  cried  at  last,  daubing  at  his  eyes  with  a  handkerchief.  "An 
achievement  indeed,  to  ennoble  and  enrich  him  who  rules  Maryland!  I'm 
sorry  to  say,  Master  Poet,  that  that  fellow  already  maintains  himself  a 
laureate  to  sing  him!  There's  no  ennobling  him  beyond  his  present  station, 
and  as  for  enriching  him,  I  venture  I've  done  my  share  of  that  and  more! 
Oh  dear!  Oh  dear!" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  89  ] 

"How  is  that?"  asked  Ebenezer,  all  bewildered. 

''My  good  man,  is't  that  you  were  born  yesterday?  Know  you  naught  of 
the  true  state  o'  the  world?" 

"Surely  'tis  thy  province!"  exclaimed  Ebenezer. 

"Surely  'twas  my  province,"  corrected  Charles  with  a  wry  smile,  "and 
the  Barons  Baltimore  were  her  True  and  Absolute  Lords  Proprietary,  more 
often  than  not,  from  the  day  she  was  chartered  till  just  three  years  ago.  I 
get  my  quit-rents  yet,  and  a  miserable  bit  of  port  revenue,  but  for  the  rest, 
'tis  King  William's  province  these  days,  sir,  and  Queen  Mary's,  not  mine. 
Why  not  take  your  proposal  to  the  Crown?" 

"Marry,  I  knew  naught  oft!"  said  Ebenezer.  "Might  I  ask  for  what  cause 
your  Lordship  retired  from  rule?  Was't  haply  your  desire  to  spend  quietly 
the  evening  of  life?  Or  belike  'twas  sheer  devotion  to  the  Crown?  Egad, 
what  spaciousness  of  character!" 

"Stay,  stay,"  cried  Charles,  shaking  again  with  mirth,  "else  I  must  summon 
my  man  again  to  pound  the  lights  out  of  me!  Hey!  Ha!"  He  sighed  deeply 
and  beat  his  chest  with  the  flat  of  his  hand.  When  he  had  regained  control 
of  himself  he  said,  "I  see  you  are  all  innocent  of  Maryland's  history,  and 
will  plunge  into  a  place  not  knowing  the  whys  and  wherefores  oft,  or  who 
stands  for  what.  You  came  to  do  me  a  favor,  so  you  declare,  and— by 
Heav'n!— enrich  and  ennoble  me:  very  well,  then,  permit  me  to  do  you 
one  in  return,  which  will  add  not  a  farthing  to  your  estate,  but  may  some- 
day haply  save  you  another  such  wasted  hour:  by  your  leave,  Mister  Cooke, 
I  shall  sketch  you  shortly  the  history  of  this  Maryland,  which,,  like  the  gift 
of  a  salvage,  was  first  bestowed  and  then  snatched  back.  Will  you  hear  it?" 

"  'Tis  my  pleasure  and  honor,"  answered  Ebenezer,  who,  however,  was 
too  crestfallen,  after  Charles's  reaction  to  his  proposal,  to  relish  greatly  a 
lesson  in  history. 


10:    A   BRIEF   RELATION   OF   THE    MARYLAND 
PALATINATE,    ITS   ORIGINS   AND    STRUGGLES   FOR 
SURVIVAL,    AS    TOLD    TO    EBENEZER    BY    HIS    HOST 


"  'TIS  TRULY  SAID,"  CHARLES  BEGAN,  "UNEASY  LIES  THE  HEAD  THAT  WEARS 

the  crown,  inasmuch  as  Envy  and  covetoiLsne$s  are  ne'er  satisfied.  Mary- 
land's mine  by  law  and  by  right,  yet  her  history  is  the  tale  of  my  family's 


[90]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

struggle  to  preserve  her,  and  of  the  plots  of  countless  knaves  to  take  her 
from  us— chief  among  them  Black  Bill  Claiborne  and  a  very  antichrist 
named  John  Coode,  who  plagues  me  yet. 

"My  grandfather,  George  Calvert,  as  you  may  know,  was  introduced  to 
the  court  of  James  I  as  private  secretary  to  Sir  Robert  Cecil,  and  after 
that  great  man's  death  was  appointed-clerk  to  the  Privy  Council  and  twice 
Commissioner  to  Ireland.  He  was  knighted  in  1617,  and  when  Sir  Thomas 
Lake  was  sacked  as  Secretary  of  State  (owing  to  the  free  tongue  of  his 
wife),  my  grandfather  was  named  to  replace  him,  despite  the  fact  that 
the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  James's  favorite,  wanted  the  post  for  his  friend 
Carleton,  the  Ambassador  to  the  Netherlands.  I  have  cause  to  believe  that 
Buckingham  took  this  as  an  affront— the  more  because  James  sent  him 
personally  to  notify  Grandfather  of  his  preferment— and  became  the  first 
significant  enemy  to  our  house. 

"What  an  ill  time  to  be  Secretary  of  State!  Twas  in  1619,  remember: 
the  Thirty  Years'  War  had  just  commenced  and  was  spreading  all  over 
the  continent;  James  had  emptied  our  treasury;  we  hadn't  a  single  strong 
ally!  'Twas  a  choice  'twixt  Spain  and  France,  and  to  choose  one  was  to 
alienate  the  other.  Buckingham  favored  Spain,  and  my  grandfather  sup- 
ported him.  What  could  seem  wiser,  I  ask  you?  Marrying  Prince  Charles  to 
the  Infanta  Maria  would  bind  Spain  to  us  forever;  Maria's  dowry  would 
fill  the  treasury;  and  by  supporting  the  King  and  Buckingham  my  grand- 
father would  prove  his  loyalty  to  the  one  and  shame  the  resentment  of 
the  other!  I  firmly  believe,  sir,  that  were  I  in  his  place  I  should  have  chosen 
the  same  course.  The  match  was  unpopular,  to  be  sure,  among  the  Prot- 
estants, and  Grandfather  was  given  the  odious  chore  (I  think  at  Bucking- 
ham's urging)  of  defending  it  to  a  hostile  Parliament— you  can  be  sure 
his  enemies  multiplied!  But  'twas  the  part  of  wisdom:  no  man  could  have 
guessed  the  treachery  of  King  Philip  and  his  ambassador  Gondomar,  who 
lured  us  to  alienate  France,  alienate  the  German  Protestant  princea,  alien- 
ate even  James's  son-in-law  Frederick  and  our  own  House  of  Commons, 
only  to  break  off  negotiations  at  the  last  minute  and  leave  us  virtually 
helpless!" 

"He  was  an  infamous  wretch,  that  Gondomar,"  Ebenezer  agreed  po- 
litely. 

"That,  of  course,  together  with  his  conversion  to  the  Church  of  Rome, 
which  he  announced  shortly  after,  ended  Grandfather's  public  career,  for 
he  was  not  a  man  to  alter  course  before  every  fickle  wind  of  expedience, 
as  did  Buckingham  and  the  court,  but  followed  honorably  the  dictates  of 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Conscience  and  Reason.  Despite  the  King's  entreaties  he  retired  from  office, 
and  as  reward  for  his  loyalty  James  named  him  Baron  of  Baltimore  in  the 
Kingdom  of  Ireland. 

"From  then  till  his  death  he  devoted  himself  to  colonizing  America.  In 
1622  James  had  patented  him  the  southeastern  peninsula  of  Newfound- 
land, and  my  grandfather,  deceived  by  lying  reports  of  the  place,  put  a 
good  part  of  his  fortune  into  a  settlement  called  Avalon  and  went  to  live 
there  himself.  But  the  climate  was  intolerable,  for  one  thing,  and  det- 
rimental both  to  crops  and  health.  What's  more,  the  French— with  whom, 
thanks  to  Buckingham's  statesmanship,  we  were  at  war— were  forever 
snatching  our  vessels  and  molesting  our  fishermen;  and  as  if  this  were  not 
trouble  enough,  certain  rascally  Puritan  ministers  spread  word  in  the  Privy 
Council  that  Popish  priests  were  being  smuggled  into  Avalon  to  undermine 
the  Church  of  England  there.  At  length  my  grandfather  begged  King 
Charles  for  a  grant  farther  south,  in  the  dominion  of  Virginia.  The  King 
wrote  in  reply  that  Grandfather  should  abandon  his  plans  and  return  to 
England,  but  ere  the  letter  was  received  Grandfather  had  already  removed 
to  Jamestown  with  his  family  and  forty  colonists.  There  he  was  met  by 
Governor  Pott  and  his  Council  (including  the  blackguard  William  Clai- 
borne,  archenemy  of  Maryland,  who  for  very  spleen  and  treachery  hath 
no  equal  in  the  history  of  the  New  World),  all  of  'em  hostile  as  salvages 
and  bent  on  driving  Grandfather  away,  for  fear  Charles  would  grant  him 
the  whole  of  Virginia  out  from  under  'em.  As  if  he  were  some  upstart 
and  not  late  Privy  Councillor  to  the  King,  they  pressed  him  to  swear  the 
oath  of  supremacy,  knowing  full  well  that  as  a  good  Catholic  he  would 
perforce  refuse.  Not  e'en  the  King  had  required  it  of  him,  and  'twas  in 
the  authority  of  neither  Pott  nor  Claiborne  nor  any  other  rascal  in  Virginia 
to  administer  it,  but  demand  it  they  did,  nonetheless,  and  were  like  to  set 
bullies  and  ruffians  upon  him  when  he  would  not  swear't." 

"Inequity!"  said  Ebenezer. 

"Iniquity!"  amended  Charles.  "So  hardly  did  they  use  him,  that  he  was 
forced  to  leave  wife  and  family  in  Jamestown,  and  after  exploring  the 
coast  for  awhile  he  returned  to  England  and  asked  Charles  for  the  Carolina 
territory,  south  of  the  James  River  to  Chowan  and  westward  to  the  moun- 
tains. The  charter  was  drawn,  but  ere  'twas  granted  who  should  appear  in 
England  but  good  Master  Claiborne,  who  straightway  commences  to  scheme 
and  intrigue  against  it.  To  avoid  dispute,  Grandfather  nobly  relinquished 
Carolina  and  applied  instead  for  land  north  of  Virginia,  on  both  sides  of 
the  Bay  of  Chesapeake.  Charles  tried  in  vain  to  persuade  him  to  live  at 


[92]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

ease  in  England  and  labor  no  more  with  grants  and  colonies,  for  that  Grand- 
father was  by  this  time  broken  in  health  from  the  rigors  of  Avalon,  dis- 
pirited by  his  contests  with  intriguers  and  bigots,  and  well-nigh  impoverished 
by  his  failures.  'Twas  e'en  implied  that  his  favor  with  the  crown  would 
be  increased  to  make  up  for  his  losses.  But  Grandfather  would  have  none 
of  such  idleness  and  at  last  prevailed  upon  the  King  to  make  the  grant, 
which  he  would  name  Crescentia,  but  which  the  King  called  Terra  Mariae, 
or  Mary-Land,  after  Henrietta  Maria,  the  Queen." 
"Nobly  done." 

"A  charter  was  writ  up  then,  the  like  of  which  for  authority  and  amplitude 
had  ne'er  been  composed  by  the  Crown  of  England.  It  granted  to  my 
grandfather  all  the  land  from  the  Potomac  River  on  the  south  to  Latitude 
Forty  on  the  north,  and  from  the  Atlantic  west  to  the  meridian  of  the 
Potomac's  first  fountain.  To  distinguish  her  above  all  other  regions  in  the 
territory,  Maryland  was  named  a  Province,  a  county  palatine,  and  over  it 
we  Barons  Baltimore  were  made  and  decreed  the  true  and  absolute  Lords 
and  Proprietaries.  We  had  the  advowsons  of  churches;  we  had  authority 
to  enact  laws  and  create  courts-baron  and  courts-leet  to  enforce  'em;  we 
could  punish  miscreants  e'en  to  the  taking  of  life  or  member;  we  could 

confer  dignities  and  titles " 

"Ah,"  said  Ebenezer,  listening  in  awe. 

"—we  could  fit  out  armies,  make  war,  levy  taxes,  patent  land,  trade 

abroad,  establish  towns  and  ports  of  entry " 

"Mercy!" 

"In  short,"  Charles  declared,  "for  the  tribute  of  two  Indian  arrows  per 
annum,  Maryland  was  ours  in  free  and  common  socage,  to  manage  as  we 
pleased;  and  what's  more  'twas  laid  down  in  the  charter  that  peradventure 
any  word,  clause,  or  sentence  in't  were  disputed,  it  must  be  read  so's  most 
to  benefit  us,  and  there's  an  end  on'tl" 
"Ffaith,  it  dizzies  me!" 

"Aye,  'twas'  a  mighty  charter,  and  fit  reward  to  George  Calvert  for  a 
life  of  loyal  and  thankless  service.  But  ere  it  passed  the  Great  Seal,  Grand- 
father died,  wdrn  out  at  a  mere  fifty-two  years  of  age,  and  the  charter 
passed  to  his  son  Cecil,  my  own  dear  father,  who  thus  in  1632,  when  he 
was  but  twenty-six,  became  Second  Lord  Baltimore  and  First  Lord  Pro- 
prietary of  the  Province  of  Maryland.  Straightway  he  set  to  fitting  out  ves- 
sels and  rounding  up  colonists,  to  what  a  hue  and  a  cry  from  Black  Bill 
Claiborne!  To  what  a  gnashing  of  teeth  and  tearing  of  hair  amongst  the 
members  of  the  old  Virginia  Company,  whose  charter  had  long  since  been 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  93  ] 

revoked!  They  would  noise  it  in  Cheapside  that  Father's  great  powers  de- 
prived the  people  of  their  liberty,  and  bruit  it  in  Bankside  that  the  Mary- 
landers  were  given  such  a  surfeit  of  liberty  as  to  discontent  the  settlers  in 
Virginia!  They  would  vow  in  Limehouse  that  the  Ark  and  the  Dove  were 
fitting  out  to  carry  nuns  to  Spain,  and  swear  in  Kensington  'twas  to  ferry 
Spanish  soldiers  that  Father  rigged  'em.  So  numerous  and  crafty  were  his 
enemies,  that  Father  must  needs  stay  behind  in  London  to  preserve  his 
rights  and  trust  the  voyage  to  my  uncles  Leonard  and  George,  who  set 
out  from  Gravesend  for  Maryland  on  October  18,  1633.  But  no  sooner 
doth  the  Ark  weigh  anchor  than  one  of  Claiborne's  spies,  hoping  to 
scuttle  us,  runs  to  the  Star  Chamber  and  reports  we're  not  cleared  through 
customs,  and  our  crew  hath  not  sworn  the  oath  of  allegiance.  Secretary 
Coke  sends  couriers  to  Admiral  Pennington,  in  the  Straits  off  Sandwich, 
to  halt  us,  and  back  we're  sent  to  London." 

"Foul  connivance!" 

"After  a  month  of  haranguing,  Father  cleared  away  the  charges  as  false 
and  malicious,  and  off  we  went  again.  So's  not  to  give  Claiborne  farther 
ammunition,  we  loaded  our  Protestants  at  Gravesend*  swpre  'em  their  oath 
off  Tilbury,  and  then  sailed  down  the  Channel  to  the  Isle  of  Wight  to  load 
our  Catholics  and  a  brace  of  Jesuit  priests." 

"Very  clever,"  Ebenezer  said  a  little  uncertainly. 

"Then,  by  Heav'n,  off  we  sail  for  Maryland  at  last,  with  instructions  from 
Father  not  to  hold  our  masses  in  the  public  view,  not  to  dispute  religion 
with  the  Protestants,  not  to  anchor  under  the  Virginians'  guns  at  Port  Com- 
fort but  to  lie  instead  over  by  Accomac  on  the  Eastern  Shore,  and  not  to 
have  aught  to  do  with  Captain  Claibome  and  his  people  for  the  first  year. 

"With  the  salvages,  a  nation  of  Piscataways,  we  had  no  quarrel,  for  they 
were  happy  enough  to  enlist  our  defense  against  their  enemies  the  Seneques 
and  Susquehannoughs:  'twas  the  fiend  Claiborne,  more  evil  than  a  score 
of  salvages,  who  caused  our  trouble!  This  Claiborne  was  a  factor  for  Clo- 
berry  and  Company,  a  Councillor  of  Virginia  after  her  charter  was  re- 
voked, and  Secretary  of  State  for  the  Dominion  by  appointment  of  Charles 
I,  who  was  easily  misled.  He  ran  a  fur  trade  with  the  Susquehanaoughs 
along  the  Chesapeake,  and  for  that  reason  had  early  looked  on  my  grand- 
father as  a  threat  to  his  fortunes.  His  main  interest  was  Kent  Island,  halfway 
up  the  Chesapeake,  where  his  trading-post  was  situated:  he'd  rather  have 
surrendered  an  arm  than  Kent  Island,  though  'twas  clearly  within  our  grant." 

'What  did  he  do?"  asked  Ebenezer. 

"What  doth  Mr.  Claiborne  do?  Why,  says  he  to  himself,  Doth  not 


[94]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Baltimore's  charter  grant  him  the  land  hactemis  inculta— Tiitherto  unculti- 
vated?' And  didn't  he  give  up  claim  to  Accomac  when  'twas  shown  the 
Virginians  had  already  settled  there?  Then  he  must  give  up  Kent  Island 
too,  for  my  traders  beat  him  to't!  Thus  he  pled  to  the  Lords  Commissioners 
for  Plantations.  But  mark  you,  this  accursed  hactenus  inculta  was  meant 
as  mere  description  of  the  land;  'tis  the  common  language  of  charters,  and 
not  intended  as  a  condition  of  the  grant.  And  truth  to  tell,  Claibome's 
traders  had  not  tilled  the  Island  at  that:  they  bartered  their  ware  for  corn 
to  live  on  as  well  as  furs  for  Cloberry  and  Company.  The  Lords  Commis- 
sioners disallowed  his  claim,  but  give  up  Kent  Island  he  would  not.  The 
Marylanders  land  in  March  of  1634— fifty-nine  years  ago  this  month- 
settle  at  St.  Mary's,  and  inform  Claiborne  that  Kent  Island  is  theirs;  he 
will  neither  swear  allegiance  to  the  Proprietary  nor  take  title  to  Kent 
from  him,,  but  asks  the  Virginia  Council  what  to  do.  You  may  depend  on't 
he  doth  not  tell  'em  of  the  Lords  Commissioners'  ruling,  and  news  travels 
slow  from  the  Privy  Council  to  America;  and  so  they  tell  him  to  hold  fast, 
and  that  he  doth,  inflaming  all  whose  ears  he  can  catch  against  my  father. 

"Uncle  Leonard,  in  St.  Mary's,  lets  Claibome's  year  of  grace  expire  and 
then  commands  him  to  acknowledge  Father's  rights  or  suffer  imprisonment 
and  confiscation  of  the  Island.  King  Charles  orders  Governor  Harvey  of 
Virginia  to  protect  us  from  the  Indians  and  allow  free  trade  'twixt  the 
colonies,  and  at  the  same  time,  being  misled  by  Claibome's  agents  to 
believe  Kent  Island  outside  our  patent,  he  orders  Father  not  to  molest 
Claiborne!  Now  Harvey  was  a  right  enough  Christian  man,  rest  his  soul, 
willing  to  live  and  let  live;  therefore,  our  Claiborne,  who  had  no  use  for 
such  peaceableness,  had  long  led  a  faction  aimed  at  unseating  the  poor 
man  and  driving  him  from  the  colony.  Thus  when  Harvey  in  obeying  the 
King's  order  declares  his  readiness  to  trade  with  Maryland,  the  Virginians 
rise  up  in  a  rage  against  him  and  declare  they'd  sooner  knock  their  cattle 
on  the  head  than  sell  'em  to  us. 

"Then  'twas  open  warfare.  Uncle  Leonard  seizes  one  of  Claibome's 
pinnaces  in  the  Patuxent  River  and  arrests  her  master  Thomas  Smith  for 
trading  without  a  license  from  Father.  Claiborne  arms  a  shallop  and  com- 
missions her  captain  to  attack  any  Maryland  vessel  he  meets.  Uncle  Leonard 
sends  out  two  pinnaces  to  engage  him,  and  after  a  bloody  fight  in  the 
Pocomoke  River,  on  the  Eastern  Shore,  the  shallop  surrenders.  Two  weeks 
later  another  Claiborne  vessel  under  command  of  the  same  Tom  Smith 
fights  it  out  in  Pocomoke  Harbor.  Poor  Governor  Harvey  by  this  time  is 
under  such  fire  from  his  Council  that  he  flies  to  England  for  safety. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  95  ] 

"Meanwhile  Uncle  Leonard  cuts  off  the  Kent  Islanders  completely,  and 
the  land  being  altogether  inculta,  they  commence  to  starve.  Father  points 
this  out  to  Cloberry  and  Company,  and  so  persuades  them  that  they  pre- 
tend no  farther  title  to  Kent  but  send  a  new  attorney  to  Maryland,  with 
authority  to  supersede  Claiborne.  The  devil  finally  yields,  asking  only  that 
the  new  man,  George  Evelyn,  not  deliver  Kent  Island  to  the  Marylanders; 
but  Evelyn  refuses  to  promise,  and  so  Claiborne  withdraws  to  London, 
where  he  is  sued  by  Cloberry  and  charged  with  mutiny  by  Governor  Harvey. 
Furthermore,  Evelyn  proceeds  to  attach  all  of  Claiborne's  property  in  Vir- 
ginia in  the  name  of  Cloberry  and  Company. 

"  'Twas  no  more  than  the  man  deserved,"  Ebenezer  said. 

"He  saw  we'd  got  the  better  of  him  for  the  nonce,  and  so  he  tried  a 
new  tack;  he  buys  him  Palmer's  Island  from  his  cronies  the  Susquehan- 
noughs,  this  being  in  the  head  of  the  Chesapeake  where  their  river  joins 
it,  and  sets  him  up  a  new  trading-post  there,  pretending  he's  outside  our 
patent.  Then  he  petitions  Charles  to  forbid  Father  from  molesting  him 
and  further  asks— with  a  plain  face,  mind!— for  a  grant  to  all  the  land  for 
twelve  leagues  either  side  the  Susquehannough  River,  extending  south- 
ward down  the  Bay  to  the  ocean  and  northward  to  the  Grand  Lake  of 
Canada!" 

"You  don't  tell  me!"  cried  Ebenezer  in  alarm,  though  he  hadn't  the 
faintest  picture  of  the  geography  referred  to. 

"Aye,"  nodded  Charles.  "The  man  was  mad!  'Twould  have  given  him 
a  strip  of  New  England  twenty-four  leagues  in  breadth  and  near  three  hun- 
dred in  length,  plus  the  entire  Chesapeake  and  three  fourths  of  Maryland! 
'Twas  his  hope  to  fool  the  King  once  more  as  he'd  done  in  the  past,  but 
the  Lords  Commissioners  threw  out  his  petition.  Evelyn  then  acknowledged 
Father's  title  to  Kent,  and  Uncle  Leonard  named  him  Commander  of  the 
Island.  He  attempted  to  persuade  the  Islanders  to  apply  to  Father  for  title 
to  their  land  and  might  have  won  them  over,,  were't  not  that  the  rascally 
Tom  Smith  is  established  there,  along  with  Claiborne's  brother-in-law,  and 
betwixt  the  two  some  armed  resistance  is  mustered  against  Evelyn.  There 
was  naught  for't  then  but  to  reduce  'em  for  good  and  all,  the  more  since 
word  had  it  that  Claiborne  and  Tom  Smith  were  fortifying  Palmer's  Island 
as  well.  Uncle  Leonard  himself  led  two  expeditions  against  the  islands,  re- 
duced them,  jailed  Smith  and  John  Boteler— Claiborne's  kin— and  confis- 
cated all  of  Claiborne's  property  in  the  Province." 

"I  trust  that  chastened  the  knave!" 

"For  a  time/'  Charles  replied.  "He  got  him  an  island  in  the  Bahamas 


[96]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

in  1638,  and  we  saw  none  of  him  for  four  or  five  years.  As  for  Smith  and 
Boteler,  we  had  'em  jailed,  but  since  the  Assembly  had  never  yet  convened, 
we  had  no  jury  to  indict  'em,  no  law  to  try  'em  under,  and  no  court  to 
try  'em  in!" 

"How  did  you  manage  it?"  asked  Ebenezer.  "Pray  don't  tell  me  you 
turned  them  free!" 

"Why,  we  convened  the  Assembly  as  a  grand  inquest  to  bring  the  in- 
dictment, then  magicked  'em  into  a  court  to  try  the  case  and  find  the 
prisoners  guilty.  Uncle  Leonard  then  sentences  Smith  to  hang,  the  court 
becomes  an  Assembly  again  and  passes  his  sentence  as  a  bill  (since  we'd 
had  no  law  to  try  the  case  under),  and  Uncle  Leonard  commutes  the  sen- 
tence to  insure  that  no  injustice  hath  been  done.  As  for  Boteler,  he  was 
let  off  with  a  light  sentence." 

"  Twas  a  brilliant  maneuver!"  declared  Ebenezer.  "A  coup  de  mdttre!" 

"  'Twas  but  the  commencement  of  our  woes,"  said  Charles.  "No  sooner 
was  the  Assembly  convened  than  they  demanded  the  right  to  enact  laws, 
albeit  the  charter  plainly  reserved  that  right  for  the  Proprietary,  requiring 
only  the  assent  of  the  freemen.  Father  resisted  for  a  time  but  had  shortly 
to  concede,  at  least  for  the  nonce,  in  order  to  avoid  a  mutiny  ere  the 
colony  was  firmly  planted.  Howbeit,  his  acquiescence  on  this  point,  me- 
thinks,  was  our  undoing,  inasmuch  as  from  that  day  forward  the  Assembly 
was  at  odds  with  us,  and  played  us  false,  and  lost  no  chance  to  diminish 
our  power  and  aggrandize  their  own." 

He  sighed. 

"And  as  if  this  weren't  sufficient  harassment,  'twas  about  this  time  we 
learned  that  the  Jesuit  missionaries,  who  since  the  hour  the  Ark  landed 
had  been  converting  Piscataways  by  the  score,  had  all  the  while  been 
taking  in  return  large  tracts  of  land  in  the  name  of  the  Church;  and  one 
fine  day  they  declare  to  us  their  intent  to  hold  this  enormous  territory  in- 
dependent of  the  Proprietary!, They  knew  Father  was  Catholic  and  felt 
themselves  a  safe  distance  from  the  English  praemunire  writ,  and  so  an- 
nounced that  canon  law  held  full  sway  in  the  province,  and  that  by  the 
Papal  Bull  In  Coena  Domini  they  and  their  fraudulent  landholdings  were 
exempt  from  the  common  law!" 

"Ah  God,  such  ingrates!"  said  Ebenezer. 

"What  they  were  ignorant  of,"  Charles  continued,  "was  that  Grandfather, 
ere  he  turned  Catholic,  had  seen  his  fill  of  Jesuitry  in  Ireland,  when  James 
sent  him  to  investigate  the  discontent  there,  'Twas  the  Jesuits  were  foment- 
ing rebellion,  and,  e'en  after  turning  to  Rome,  he  held  no  love  for  'em 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [97] 

and  warned  Father  of  their  subtleties.  Father,  then,  to  nip't  in  the  bud 
ere  the  Jesuits  snatch  the  whole  Province  on  the  one  hand,  as  Uncle 
Leonard  feared,  or  the  Protestants  use  the  incident  as  excuse  for  an  anti- 
Papist  insurrection  on  the  other— Father,  I  say,  applied  to  Rome  to  recall 
the  Jesuits  and  send  him  secular  priests  instead;  and  after  some  years  of 
dispute  the  Propaganda  ordered  it  done. 

"Next  came  Indian  trouble.  The  Susquehannoughs  to  the  north  and 
the  Nanticokes  on  the  Eastern  Shore  had  always  raided  the  other  tribes 
now  and  again,  being  hunters  and  not  farmers.  But  after  1640,  for  one 
cause  or  another,  they  took  to  attacking  plantations  here  and  there  in  the 
Province,  and  there  was  talk  of  their  stirring  up  our  friends  the  Piscataways 
to  join  'em  in  a  wholesale  massacre.  Uncle  Leonard  applied  to  Governor 
Berkeley  of  Virginia  to  join  him  in  an  expedition  to  reduce  the  salvages, 
but  Berkeley's  Council  refused  to  help  us:  small  matter  to  them  if  every 
soul  in  Maryland  lost  his  scalp!  Some  said  'twas  the  French  behind  it  all; 
some  alleged  'twas  the  work  of  the  Jesuits;  but  I  believe  'twas  the  scheming 
hand  of  Bill  Claibome  at  work.  Nay,  I  am  sure  oft!" 

"Claiborne!"  said  Ebenezer.  "How  is  that?  Did  I  not  mishear  you,  Clai- 
borne  was  hid  somewhere  in  the  Bahamas!" 

"Aye,  so  he  was.  But  in  1643,  what  with  the  Jesuit  trouble,  and  the 
Indian  trouble,,  and  some  dissension  in  the  colony  over  the  civil  war  'twixt 
Charles  and  the  Parliament,  Uncle  Leonard  returned  to  London  to  discuss 
the  affairs  of  the  Province  with  Father,  and  no  sooner  did  he  sail  than 
Claiborne  commenced  slipping  up  the  Bay  in  secret,  trying  to  stir  up 
sedition  amongst  the  Kent  Islander?.  'Twas  about  this  time  one  Richard 
Ingle— a  sea-captain,  atheist,  and  traitor— puts  into  St.  Mary's  with  a  mer- 
chantman called  the  Reformation,  drinks  himself  drunk,  and  declares  to 
all  and  sundry  that  the  King  is  no  king,  that  had  he  Prince  Rupert  aboard 
he'd  flog  him  at  the  capstan  and  be  damned  to  him,  and  that  he'd  take 
off  the  head  of  any  royalist  who  durst  gainsay  him!" 

"Treason!"  Ebenezer  exclaimed. 

"So  said  our  man  Giles  Brent,  who  was  Governor  against  Uncle  Leonard's 
return;  he  jailed  Ingle  and  confiscated  his  ship.  But  as  quick  as  we  clap 
the  blackguard  in  irons  he's  set  loose  by  order  of  our  own  Councilman, 
Captain  Cornwaleys,  restored  to  his  ship,  and  let  go  free  as  a  fish  without 
clearing  his  vessel  or  paying  his  debts!" 

"I  am  astonished." 

"Now,  this  Cornwaleys  was  a  soldier  and  had  lately  led  expeditions  to 
make  peace  with  the  Nanticokes  and  drive  back  the  Susquehannoughs, 


[.98  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

despite  the  great  scarcity  of  powder  and  shot  in  the  Province.  When  we 
impeached  him  for  freeing  Ingle,  'twas  said  in  his  defense  he'd  exacted 
promise  from  the  scoundrel  to  supply  us  a  barrel  of  powder  and  four  hun- 
dredweight of  shot  for  the  defense  of  the  Province— and  sure  enough  the 
rascal  returns  soon  after,  cursing  and  assaulting  all  he  meets,  and  pledges 
the  ammunition  as  bail  against  a  future  trial.  But  ere  we  see  a  ball  oft, 
off  he  sails  again,  flaunting  clearance  and  port-dues,  and  takes  his  friend 
Cornwaleys  as  passenger. 

"'Twas  soon  clear,  to  our  horror,  that  Ingle  and  Claiborne,  our  two 
worst  enemies,  had  leagued  together  to  do  us  in,  using  the  English  Civil 
War  as  alibi.  Claiborne  landed  at  Kent  Island,  displayed  a  false  parchment, 
and  swore  'twas  his  commission  from  the  King  to  command  the  Island. 
At  the  same  time,  the  roundhead  Ingle  storms  St.  Mary's  with  an  armed 
ship  and  his  own  false  parchment,  which  he  calls  letters  of  marque  from 
the  Parliament;  he  reduces  the  city,  drives  Uncle  Leonard  to  flee  to  Virginia, 
and  so  with  Claiborne's  aid  claims  the  whole  of  Maryland,  which  for  the 
space  of  two  years  suffers  total  anarchy.  He  pillages  here,  plunders  there, 
seizes  property;  steals  the  very  locks  and  hinges  of  every  housedoor,  and 
snatches  e'en  the  Great  Seal  of  Maryland  itself,  it  being  forty  poundsworth 
of  good  silver.  He  does  not  stick  e'en  at  the  house  and  goods  of  his  savior 
Cornwaleys  but  plunders  'em  with  the  rest,  and  then  has  Comwaleys 
jailed  in  London  as  his  debtor  and  a  traitor  to  bootl  As  a  final  cut  he  swears 
to  the  House  of  Lords  he  did  it  all  for  conscience's  sake,  forasmuch  as 
Cornwaleys  and  the  rest  of  his  victims  were  wicked  Papists  and  malignantsl" 

"I  cannot  comprehend  it,"  confessed  Ebenezer. 

"In  1646.  Uncle  Leonard  mustered  a  force  with  the  help  of  Governor 
Berkeley  and  recaptured  St.  Mary's  and  soon  all  of  Maryland— Kent  Island 
being  the  last  to  submit  The  Province  was  ours  again,  though  Uncle 
Leonard's  pains  were  ill  rewarded,  for  he  died  a  year  after." 

"Hi!"  cried  Ebenezer.  "What  a  struggle!  I  hope  with  all  my  heart  you 
were  plagued  no  more  by  the  likes  of  Claiborne  but  enjoyed  your  Province 
in  peace  and  harmony!" 

"  Twas  our  due,  by  Heav'n!  It  should  have  been  wholly  clear  to  all  by 
then,  that  as  the  proverb  hath  it,  Tis  better  to  rule  than  be  ruled  by  the 
rout.  But  not  three  years  passed  ere  the  pot  of  faction  and  sedition  boiled 
again." 

"I  groan  to  hear  it." 

"  Twas  mainly  Claiborne  again,  this  time  in  league  with  Oliver  Crom- 
well and  the  Protestants,  though  he'd  lately  been  a  swaggering  royalist." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [99] 

"I  swear,"  said  Ebenezer,  "the  fellow's  a  very  Vicar  of  Bray  for  shifting 
with  the  weather!" 

"Some  years  before,  when  the  Anglicans  ran  the  Puritans  out  of  Virginia, 
Uncle  Leonard  had  given  'em  leave  to  make  a  town  called  Providence  on 
the  Severn  River,  inasmuch  as  none  suffered  in  Maryland  by  reason  of 
his  faith.  But  these  Protestants  were  arch  ingrates,  and  despised  us  Roman- 
ists, and  would  swear  no  allegiance  to  Father.  They  plainly  declared  their 
eagerness  for  his  overthrow  and  watched  jealously  for  any  excuse  to  seize 
the  government.  When  Charles  I  was  beheaded  and  Charles  II  driven  to 
exile,  Father  made  no  protest  but  acknowledged  Parliament's  authority; 
he  e'en  saw  to't  that  the  Catholic  Thomas  Greene,  Governor  after  Uncle 
Leonard  died,  was  replaced  by  a  Protestant  and  friend  of  Parliament,  Wil- 
liam Stone,  so's  to  give  the  malcontents  in  Providence  no  occasion  to 
rebel.  His  thanks  for  this  wisdom  was  to  have  Charles  II,  exiled  on  the 
Isle  of  Jersey,  declare  him  a  Roundhead  and  grant  the  Maryland  govern- 
ment to  Sir  William  Davenant,  the  poet/' 

"Davenant!"  exclaimed  Ebenezer.  "Ah,  now,  'tis  a  right  noble  vision, 
the  poet-king!  Yet  do  I  blush  for  my  craft,  that  the  fellow  took  a  prize  so 
unfairly  giv'n." 

"He  got  not  far  with't,  for  no  sooner  did  he  sail  for  Maryland  than  a 
Parliament  cruiser  waylaid  him  in  the  Channel  off  Lands  End,  and  that 
scotched  him." 

"Colleague  or  no,'7  Ebenezer  declared,  "I've  no  pity  for  him." 

"Now  Virginia,,  don't  you  know,  was  royalist  to  the  end,  and  when  she 
proclaimed  Charles  II  directly  his  father  was  axed,  Parliament  made  ready 
a  fleet  to  reduce  her  to  submission.  Just  then,  in  1650,  our  Governor  Stone 
hied  him  to  Virginia  on  business  and  deputized  his  predecessor  Thomas 
Greene  to  govern  till  his  return.  'Twas  a  fool's  decision,  inasmuch  as  this 
Greene  still  smarted  at  having  been  replaced  and  despised  Father  as  a 
traitor  to  the  Crown  and  the  Roman  Church.  Directly  he's  deputized  he 
declares  with  Virginia  for  Charles  II  as  the  rightful  ruler  of  England,  and 
for  all  Governor  Stone  hastens  back  and  turns  the  fellow  out,  the  damage 
is  done!  The  dastard  Dick  Ingle  was  still  a  free  man  in  London,  and  directly 
word  reached  him  he  flew  to  the  committee  in  charge  of  reducing  Virginia 
and  caused  'em  to  add  Maryland  to  the  commission.  How  the  man  yearned 
to  plunder  us  again!  But  Father  caught  wind  oft,  and  ere  the  fleet  sailed 
he  petitioned  that  Greene's  proclamation  had  been  made  without  his 
authority  or  knowledge,  and  caused  the  name  of  Maryland  to  be  stricken 
from  the  commission.  Thinking  that  guaranty  enough,  he  retired:  straight- 


[  100  ]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

way  sly  Bill  Claiborne  appears  and,  trusting  as  always  that  the  committee 
knows  naught  of  American  geography,  sees  to't  the  commission  is  rewrit 
to  include  all  the  plantations  within  the  Bay  of  Chesapeake— which  is  to 
say,  all  of  Maryland!  What's  more,  he  gets  himself  appointed  as  an  alternate 
commissioner  of  Parliament  to  sail  with  the  fleet.  There  were  three  com- 
missioners— all  reasonable  gentlemen,  if  misled— and  two  alternates: 
Claiborne  and  another  scoundrel,  Richard  Bennett,  that  had  taken  ref- 
uge in  our  Providence  town  what  time  Virginia  turned  out  her  Puritans." 

"Marry!"  cried  Ebenezer.  "I  ne'er  have  heard  of  such  perfidy!" 

"Stay,"  said  Charles.  "Not  content  with  being  alternates,  Claiborne 
and  Bennett  see  to't  two  of  the  commissioners  are  lost  at  sea  during  the 
passage,  and  step  ashore  at  Point  Comfort  with  full  authority  over  both 
Virginia  and  Maryland!" 

"  'Sbodikins!  The  man's  a  very  Machiavell" 

"They  reduce  Virginia;  Bennett  appoints  himself  Governor  and 
Claiborne  Secretary  of  State;  then  they  turn  to  Maryland,  where  the  rascals 
in  Providence  greet  'em  with  open  arms.  Good  Governor  Stone  is  de- 
posed, Catholics  are  stripped  of  their  rights  wholesale,  and  all  Father's 
authority  is  snatched  away.  As  a  last  stroke,  Claiborne  and  Bennett  rouse 
up  the  old  Virginia  Company  to  petition  for  wiping  Maryland  off  the  map 
entirely  and  restoring  the  ancient  boundaries  of  Virginia!  Father  pled 
his  case  to  the  Commissioners  for  Plantations,  and  while  it  lay  a-cooking 
he  reminded  Oliver  Cromwell  that  Maryland  had  stayed  loyal  to  the  Com- 
monwealth in  the  face  of  her  royalist  neighbors.  Cromwell  heard  him  out, 
and  later,  when  he  dissolved  Parliament  and  named  himself  Lord  Protector, 
he  assured  Father  of  his  favor. 

"Governor  Stone  meanwhile  had  got  himself  back  into  office,  and 
Father  ordered  him  to  proclaim  the  Protectorate  and  declare  the  commis- 
sioners' authority  expired.  Claiborne  and  Bennett  muster  a  force  of  their 
own  and  depose  Stone  again  favor  of  the  Puritan  William  Fuller  from 
Providence,  Father  appeals  to  Cromwell,  Cromwell  sends  an  order  to  Ben- 
nett and  Claiborne  to  desist,  and  Father  orders  Stone  to  raise  a  force  and 
march  on  Fuller  in  Providence.  But  Fuller  hath  more  guns,,  and  so  he  forces 
Stone's  men  to  surrender  on  promise  of  quarter.  No  sooner  doth  he  have 
'em  than  he  murders  four  of  Stone's  lieutenants  on  the  spot  and  throws 
Stone,  grievously  wounded,  into  prison.  Fuller's  beasts  then  seize  the  Great 
Seal,  confiscate  and  plunder  at  will,  and  drive  all  Catholic  priests  out  of 
the  Province  in  fear  of  their  lives;  Claiborne  and  his  cohorts  raise  a  hue 
and  a  ciy  again  to  the  Commissioners  for  Plantations.  But  'tis  all  in  vain, 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  1O1  ] 

for  at  last,  in  1658,  the  Province  is  restored  to  Father,  and  the  government 
delivered  to  Josias  Fendall,  whom  Father  had  named  to  represent  him  after 
Stone  was  jailed." 

"Thank  Heav'n!"  said  Ebenezer.  "All's  well  that  ends  well!" 
"And  ill  as  ends  ill,"  replied  Charles,  "for  that  same  year,  1658,  Fendall 
turned  traitor/' 

"Tis  too  much!"  cried  Ebenezer.  "Tis  a  surfeit  of  treachery!" 
"Tis  the  plain  truth.  Some  say  he  was  the  tool  of  Fuller  and  Claiborne, 
inasmuch  as  Fuller  had  once  arrested  him  and  released  him  only  on 
oath  of  allegiance  to  the  poltroons.  However  'twas,  Cromwell  being  dead 
and  his  son  a  weakling,  Fendall  persuaded  the  Assembly  to  declare  them- 
selves independent  of  the  Proprietary,  overthrew  the  whole  constitution 
of  the  Province,  and  usurped  every  trace  of  Father's  authority.  TwouldVe 
been  a  sorry  time  for  us,  had  not  Charles  II  been  restored  to  the  throne 
shortly  after.  Father,  Heav'n  knows  how,  made  peace  with  him,  and  ob- 
tained royal  letters  commanding  all  to  support  his  government  and  directing 
Berkeley  of  Virginia  to  aid  him.  Uncle  Philip  Calvert  was  named  governor, 
and  the  whole  conspiracy  collapsed  at  once:  Maryland  was  ours  again— 
albeit  the  Assembly  remained  a  thorn  in  our  side." 
"Dare  I  hope  your  trials  ended  there?"  asked  Ebenezer. 
"For  a  time  we  suffered  no  more  rebellions,"  Charles  admitted.  "I  came 
to  St.  Mary's  as  governor  in  1661,  and  in  1675,  when  my  dear  father  died, 
I  became  third  Lord  Baltimore.  During  that  time  our  only  real  troubles 
were  scattered  assaults  by  the  Indians  and  certain  attempts  by  the  Dutch, 
the  Swedes,  and  others  to  snatch  away  some  of  our  land  by  the  old  hactenus 
inculta  gambit.  The  Dutch  had  long  before  settled  illegally  on  the  Dela- 
ware River,  and  Governor  D'Hinoyossa  of  New  Amstel  stirred  up  the 
Jhonadoes,  the  Cinagoes,  and  the  Mingoes  against  us.  I  considered  making 
war  on  him,  but  decided  against  it  for  fear  King  Charles  (who  had  already 
broken  sundry  of  my  charter-privileges)  might  take  the  opportunity  to  seize 
the  whole  Delaware  territory—I  lost  it  anyhow  in  1664,  to  his  brother  the 
Duke  of  York,  and  could  not  raise  a  word  of  protest. 

"The  year  I  became  Lord  Baltimore  it  happened  that  the  Cinagoes  (what 
the  French  call  Seneques)  descended  on  the  Susquehannoughs,  who  were 
fierce  enough  themselves,  and  they  in  turn  overran  Maryland  and  Virginia. 
The  outrages  that  followed  were  the  excuse  for  Bacon's  Rebellion  in  Vir- 
ginia and  the  cause  of  much  unrest  in  Maryland.  Some  time  before,  in 
order  to  harness  somewhat  the  malcontents  and  seditionists  in  the  Assem- 
bly, I  had  restricted  the  suffrage  to  the  better  class  of  citizens,  and  held 


[l02]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

the  Assembly  in  long  session  to  avoid  the  risk  of  new  elections;  but  even 
this  failed  to  quiet  things— insurrection  was  in  the  very  air,  and  no  governor 
durst  raise  an  army  to  quell  Indians  or  conspirators  for  fear  'twould  turn 
on  him.  My  enemies  intrigued  against  me  from  all  quarters.  Even  old 
Claiborne  reappears  on  the  scene,  albeit  he  was  well  past  eighty,  and,  pos- 
ing as  a  royalist  again,  petitions  the  King  against  me— to  no  avail,  happily, 
and  'twas  my  indescribable  pleasure  not  long  after  to  hear  of  the  scoundrel's 
death  in  Virginia." 

"  Tis  my  pleasure  as  well  to  hear  oft  now,"  declared  Ebenezer,  "for  I'd 
come  to  fear  the  knave  was  immortal!  We  are  the  better  for  his  passing, 
I  swear!" 

"I  was  accused  of  everything  from  Popery  to  defrauding  the  King's  rev- 
enues," Charles  went  on.  "As  if  my  own  weren't  being  defrauded  on  every 
side!  When  Nat  Bacon  turned  his  private  army  on  Governor  Berkeley  in 
Virginia,  a  pair  of  rascals  named  William  Davis  and  John  Pate  attempted 
a  like  rebellion  in  Calvert  County— urged  on,  I  think,  by  the  turncoats 
William  Fuller  and  Josias  Fendall,  who  ranged  privily  about  the  Province 
causing  trouble.  I  was  in  London  at  the  time,  but  when  I  heard  of  the 
thing,  and  heard  it  said  that  the  insurgents  denied  the  lawfulness  of  my 
Assembly,  I  straightway  had  my  deputy  hang  the  both  of  'em,,  and  nipped 
the  matter  ere  it  got  out  of  hand.  But  not  four  years  later  the  traitor  Fen- 
dall conspires  with  a  new  villain  to  incite  a  new  revolt:  This  was  the  false 
priest,  John  Coode,  I  spoke  of,  that  puts  e'en  Black  Bill  Claiborne  in  the, 
shade.  I  squelched  their  game  in  time  and  banished  Fendall  forever,  though 
the  conniving  Assembly  let  Coode  off  free  as  a  bird,  to  cause  more  trouble 
later. 

"After  this  the  intrigues  and  tribulations  came  in  a  great  rush,  such  that 
six  Lords  Proprietary  could  scarce  have  dealt  with  all  In  1681,  to  settle  a 
private  debt,  King  Charles  grants  a  large  area  north  of  Maryland  to  William 
Penn-may  his  Quaker  fat  be  rendered  in  the  fires  of  helll-and  immedi- 
ately I'm  put  to't  to  defend  my  northern  border  against  his  smooth  de- 
ceits and  machinations.  'Twas  laid  out  in  my  charter  that  Maryland's 
north  boundary  is  Latitude  Forty,  and  to  mark  that  parallel  I  had  long 
since  caused  a  blockhouse  to  be  built  for  the  Susquehannoughs.  Penn 
agreed  with  me  that  his  boundary  should  run  north  of  the  blockhouse, 
but  when  his  grant  appeared  no  mention  at  all  was  made  oft.  Instead  there 
was  a  string  of  nonsense  fit  to  muddle  any  templar,  and  to  insure  his  scheme 
Penn  sent  out  a  lying  surveyor  with  a  crooked  sextant  to  take  his  obser- 
vations. The  upshot  oft  was,  he  declared  his  southern  boundary  to  be 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  103  ] 

eight  miles  south  of  my  blockhouse  and  resorted  to  every  evasion  and  sub- 
terfuge to  avoid  conferring  with  me  on  this  outrage.  When  finally  we  treed 
him  and  proposed  a  mutual  observation,  he  pled  a  broken  sextant;  and 
when  our  own  instrument  showed  the  line  in  its  true  location,  he  accused 
me  of  subverting  the  King's  authority.  So  concerned  was  he  that  the 
boundary  fall  where  he  wished,  he  proposed  a  devil's  bag  of  tricks  to  gain 
it.  Measure  north  from  the  Capes,  he  says,  at  the  short  measure  of  sixty 
miles  to  the  degree;  lower  your  south  border  by  thirty  miles,  he  says,  and 
snatch  land  from  the  Virginians;  measure  two  degrees  north  from  Watkins 
Point,  he  says.  Then  I  ask  him,  'Why  this  measuring  and  land-snatching? 
Why  not  take  sextant  in  hand- and  find  the  fortieth  parallel  for  good  and 
all?7  At  last  he  agrees,  but  only  on  condition  that  should  the  line  fall  north 
of  where  he  wants  it,  I  must  sell  him  the  difference  at  a  'gentleman's 
price/" 

"I  cannot  fathom  it,"  Ebenezer  admitted.  "All  this  talk  of  sextants  and 
parallels  leaves  me  faint." 

"The  truth  was,"  said  Charles,  "Penn  had  sworn  to  his  Society  for  Trade 
that  his  grant  included  the  headwaters  of  the  Bay  and  he  was  resolved  to 
have't,  come  what  might,  for  all  his  lying  pieties  and  smooth  platitudes. 
When  all  else  failed  he  fell  to  plotting  with  his  friend  the  Duke  of  York 
next  door,  and  when  to  my  great  distress  the  Duke  took  the  throne  as 
James  II,  Penn  conjures  him  up  that  accursed  specter  of  a  hactenus  inculta 
again  and  gets  himself  granted  the  whole  Delaware  territory,  the  which 
was  neither  his  to  take  nor  James's  to  grant,  but  clearly  and  unmistakably 
mine. 

"Matters  reached  such  a  pass  that  though  I  feared  to  leave  the  Province 
to  my  enemies  for  e'en  a  minute,  I  had  no  recourse  but  to  sail  for  London 
in  1684  to  fight  this  Penn's  intrigues.  Now  for  some  time  I  had  been  falsely 
accused  of  allowing  smugglers  to  defraud  the  King's  port-revenues  and  of 
failing  to  assist  the  royal  tax  collectors,  and  had  even  paid  a  fine  for't 
No  sooner  do  I  weigh  anchor  for  London  than  my  kinsman  George  Talbot 
in  St.  Mary's  allows  a  rascally  beast  of  a  tax  collector  to  anger  him  and 
stabs  the  knave  dead.  Twas  a  fool's  act,  and  my  enemies  seized  on't  at 
once.  Against  all  justice  they  refuse  to  try  him  in  the  Province,  but  instead 
deliver  him  to  Effingham,  then  governor  of  Virginia—who,  by  the  way, 
later  plotted  with  the  Privy  Council  to  have  the  whole  of  Maryland  granted 
to  himself!— and  'twas  all  I  could  manage  to  save  his  neck.  Shortly  after- 
wards another  customs  officer  is  murthered,  and  though  'twas  a  private 
quarrel,  my  enemies  put  the  two  together  to  color  me  a  traitor  to  the  Crown. 


[  104  1  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Penn,  meanwhile,  commenced  a  quo  warranto  suit  against  my  entire 
charter,  and  with  his  friend  on  the  throne  I  doubt  not  what  would  have 
been  the  result:  as't  happened,  the  folk  of  England  just  then  pressed  their 
own  quo  warranto,  so  to  speak,  against  King  James,  and  Penn's  game  was 
spoilt,  for  the  nonce,  by  the  revolution." 

"I  cannot  tell  how  relieved  I  am  to  hear  it!"  Ebenezer  declared. 

"Ah,"  sighed  Charles,  "but  'twas  my  loss  either  way:  when  James  was 
on  the  throne  my  enemies  called  me  disloyal  to  him;  when  he  went  in 
exile,  and  William  landed  in  England,  all  they  cared  to  remember  was  that 
both  James  and  I  were  Catholics.  Twas  then,  at  the  worst  possible  time, 
my  fool  of  a  Deputy  Governor  William  Josephs  sees  fit  to  declare  to  the 
Assembly  his  belief  in  the  divine  right  of  kings  and,  folly  of  follies,  makes 
Maryland  proclaim  officially  the  birth  of  James's  Catholic  son!" 

"I  tremble  for  you,"  Ebenezer  said. 

"  Tis  fit,  'tis  fit.  Naturally,  the  instant  William  took  the  throne  I  sent 
word  to  the  Maryland  Council  to  proclaim  him.  But  whether  from  natural 
causes  or,  as  I  suspect,  from  the  malice  of  my  enemies,  the  messenger  died 
on  shipboard  and  was  buried  at  sea,  and  his  commission  with  him,  so  that 
Maryland  remained  silent  even  after  Virginia  and  New  England  had  pro- 
claimed. I  sent  a  second  messenger  at  once,  but  the  harm  was  done,  and 
those  who  were  not  crying  'Papist!'  were  crying  'Jacobite!'  On  the  heels  of 
this  misfortune,  in  1689  my  enemies  in  England  caused  me  to  be  outlawed 
in  Ireland  on  charges  of  committing  treason  there  against  William  in 
James's  behalf— though  in  sooth  I'd  never  in  my  life  set  foot  on  Irish  soil  and 
was  at  the  very  moment  in  England  expressly  to  fight  the  efforts  of  James 
and  Penn  to  snatch  Maryland  from  me!  To  top  it  all,  in  March  of  the  same 
year  they  spread  a  rumor  over  Maryland  that  a  great  conspiracy  of  nine 
thousand  Catholics  and  Indians  had  invaded  the  Province  to  murther  every 
Protestant  in  the  land:  the  men  sent  to  Mattapany,  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Potomac,  are  told  of  massacres  at  the  river's  head  and,  rushing  there  to 
save  the  day,,  find  the  settlers  arming  against  such  massacres  as  they've 
heard  of  in  Mattapany!  For  all  my  friends  declare  'tis  naught  but  a  sleeve- 
less fear  and  imagination,  the  whole  Province  is  up  in  arms  against  the 
Catholics." 

"Blind!  Blind!" 

"Aye,  but  'twas  no  worse  than  the  anti-Papism  here  in  London,"  said 
Charles.  "My  only  pleasure  in  this  dark  hour  was  to  see  that  lying  Quaker 
Penn  himself  arrested  and  jailed  as  a  Jesuit!" 

"Small  consolation,  but  i'faith  it  cheers  me,  tool" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  105  ] 

"Naught  now  remained  but  for  the  conspirators  to  administer  the  coup 
de  grdce,  for  ne'er  had  my  position  been  weaker.  This  they  did  in  July, 
led  by  the  false  priest  John  Coode.  He  marches  on  St.  Mary's  with  an 
armed  force,  promotes  himself  to  the  rank  of  general,  and  for  all  he'd  used 
to  be  a  Catholic  himself,  shouts  Papist  and  Jesuit  to  the  skies  until  the 
whole  city  surrenders.  The  President  and  Council  flee  to  Mattapany,  where 
Coode  besieges  'em  in  the  fort  till  they  give  up  the  government  to  him. 
Then,  calling  themselves  the  Protestant  Associators,  they  beg  King  Wil- 
liam to  snatch  the  government  for  himself  I" 

"I  am  astonished!"  Ebenezer  said.  "Surely  King  William  hanged  him!" 

Charles,  who  had  been  talking  as  rapidly  and  distractedly  as  though  tell- 
ing a  rosary  of  painful  beads,  now  seemed  really  to  notice  Ebenezer  for 
the  first  time  since  commencing  the  history. 

"My  dear  Poet.  .  .  ."  He  smiled  thinly.  "William  is  at  war  with  King 
Louis:  in  the  first  place,  for  aught  anyone  knows  the  war  might  spread  to 
America,  and  he  is  most  eager  to  gain  control  of  all  the  colonies  against 
this  possibility.  In  the  second  place,  war  is  expensive,  and  my  revenues 
could  help  to  pay  his  soldiers.  In  the  third  place,  he  holds  the  crown  by 
virtue  of  an  anti-Papist  revolution,  and  I  am  a  Papist.  In  the  fourth  place, 
the  government  of  Maryland  was  imploring  him  to  rescue  the  province 
from  the  oppression  of  Catholics  and  Indians " 

"Enough,  enough!"  cried  Ebenezer.  "I  fear  me  he  snatched  it!" 

"Aye,  he  snatched  my  Maryland  from  me." 

"But  by  what  legal  right " 

"Ah,  'twas  wondrous  legal,"  said  Charles.  "William  instructed  the  At- 
torney General  to  proceed  against  my  charter  by  way  of  scire  facias,  but 
reflecting  afterwards  on  the  time  such  litigation  would  require,  and  the 
treasury's  dire  need  for  food,  and  the  possibility  of  the  Court's  finding  in 
my  favor— as  he  was  sensible  they  must  if  the  thing  were  done  aright— he 
asks  Chief  Justice  Holt  to  find  him  a  way  to  snatch  my  Maryland  with  less 
bother.  Holt  ponders  awhile,  scratches  round  till  he  recalls  that  jus  est  id 
quod  principi  placet,  and  then  declares,  in  all  solemnity,  that  though 
'twould  be  better  the  charter  were  forfeited  in  a  proper  inquisition,  yet 
since  no  inquisition  hath  been  held,  and  since  by  the  King's  own  word  the . 
matter  is  urgent,  he  thinks  the  King  might  snatch  him  the  government  on 
the  instant  and  do  his  investigating  later." 

"Why,"  said  Ebenezer,  "I  am  aghast!  Tis  like  hanging  a  man  today  and 
trying  his  crime  tomorrow!" 

Charles  nodded.  "In  August  of  1691  milord  Sir  Lionel  Copley  became 


[  106  ]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

the  first  royal  governor  of  the  crown  colony  of  Maryland,"  he  concluded. 
"My  rank  fell  from  that  of  count  palatine,  a  veritable  prince  with  power 
of  life  and  death  over  my  subjects,  to  that  of  common  landlord,  entitled 
only  to  my  quit  rents,  my  port  duty  of  fourteen  pence  per  ton  on  foreign 
vessels,,  and  my  tobacco  duty  of  one  shilling  per  hogshead.  The  Commis- 
sioners of  the  Privy  Seal,  be't  said  to  their  credit,  disputed  Lord  Holt's 
decision,  and  in  fact  when  the  quo  warranto  was  instigated  the  allegations 
against  me  fell  to  pieces  for  lack  of  evidence,  and  no  judgment  was  found. 
But  of  course  'twas  precisely  because  he  foresaw  this  that  William  had 
leaped  ere  he  looked:  you  may  depend  on't  he  held  fast  to  Maryland, 
judgment  or  no  judgment,  and  clasps  her  yet  like  a  lover  his  mistress;  for 
Possession  is  nine  points  of  the  law  in  any  case,  and  with  a  king  'tis  parlia- 
ment, statute  book,  and  courtroom  all  together!  Tis  said  in  sooth,  A  king's 
favor  is  no  inheritance;  and  A  king  promiseth  all,  and  observeth  what  he 
will" 

"And,"  added  Ebenezer,  "He  who  eats  the  King's  goose  shall  choke  on 
the  feathers!1 

"How?"  Charles  demanded  angrily.  "D'you  twit  me,  fellow?  Think  thee 
Maryland  was  e'er  King  William's  goose?" 

"Nay,  nay!"  Ebenezer  protested,  "You  misread  the  saying!  Tis  meant  to 
signify  merely,  that  A  great  dowry  is  a  bed  full  of  brambles,  don't  you 
know:  A  great  man  and  a  great  river  are  ill  neighbors,  or  A  king's  bounty 
is  a  mixed  blessing'9 

"Enough,  I  grasp  it.  So,  then,  there  is  your  Maryland,  fellow.  Think  you 
'tis  fit  for  a  Marylandiad?" 

"I'faith,"  replied  Ebenezer,  "'twere  fitter  for  a  Jeremiad!  Ne'er  have  I 
encountered  such  a  string  of  plots,  cabals,  murthers,  and  machinations  in 
life  or  literature  as  this  history  you  relate  me— it  sets  my  head  a-twirl,  and 
chills  my  blood!" 

Charles  smiled,  "And  doth  it  haply  inspire  your  pen?" 

"Ah  God,  what  a  dolt  and  boor  must  Your  Lordship  think  me,  to  burst 
upon  you  with  grand  notions  of  couplet  and  eulogy!  I  swear  to  you  I  am 
sorry  for't:  I  shall  leave  at  once." 

.     "Stay,  stay,"  said  Charles,  as  Ebenezer  rose  to  leave.  "I  will  confess  to 
you,  this  Marylandiad  of  yours  is  not  without  interest  to  me/' 

"Nay,"  Ebenezer  said,  "you  but  chide  me  for  punishment," 

"I  am  an  old  man,"  Charles  declared,  "with  small  time  left  on  earth " 

"Heav'n  forbid!" 

"Nay,  'tis  clear  truth/'  Charles  insisted.  "The  prime  of  my  life,  and  more, 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  107  ] 

I've  laid  on  the  altar  of  a  prosperous,  well-governed  Maryland,  which  was 
given  me  in  trust  by  my  dear  father,  and  him  by  his,  to  husband  and 
improve,  and  which  I  dreamed  of  handing  on  to  my  son  a  richer,  worthier 
estate  for  my  having  ruled  it." 

"Ah,  many,  I  am  in  tears!" 

"And  now  in  my  old  age  I  find  this  shan't  be/'  Charles  continued. 
"Maryland  was  mine  to  preserve,  and  I  have  lost  her  for  good  and  all 
Moreover,  I  am  too  aged  and  infirm  to  make  another  ocean  passage  and 
so  must  die  here  in  England  without  laying  eyes  again  upon  that  land  as 
dear  to  my  heart  as  the  wife  of  my  body,,  and  whose  abduction  and  rape 
stings  me  as  e'er  did  Helen's  Menelaus." 

"I  can  bear  no  more!"  wept  Ebenezer,  patting  his  eyes  and  blowing  his 
nose  delicately  into  his  handkerchief. 

"I  have  no  authority/'  Charles  concluded,  "and  so  can  no  longer  confer 
dignities  and  titles  as  before.  But  I  declare  to  you  this,  Mr.  Cooke:  hie  you 
to  Maryland;  put  her  history  out  of  mind  and  look  you  at  her  peerless 
virtues— the  graciousness  of  her  inhabitants,  their  good  breeding  and  excel- 
lent dwelling  places,  the  majesty  of  her  laws,  the  comfort  of  her  inns  and 
ordinaries,  the  richness  and  beauty  of  her  fields,  woods,  and  waters— look  you 
at  these,  I  say;  study  them;  mark  them  well.  Then,  if  you  can,  turn  what  you 
see  to  verse;  tune  and  music  it  for  all  the  world's  ears!  Rhyme  me  such  a 
rhyme,  Eben  Cooke;  verse  me  such  a  verse,  I  charge  you;  make  me  this 
Maryland,  that  neither  time  nor  intrigue  can  rob  me  of;  that  I  can  pass  on 
to  my  son  and  my  son's  son  and  all  the  ages  of  the  world!  Sing  me  this  song, 
sir,  and  by  my  faith,  in  the  eyes  and  heart  of  Charles  Calvert  and  of  every 
Christian  lover  of  Beauty  and  Justice,  thou'rt  in  sooth  Poet  and  Laureate 
of  the  Province!  And  should  e'er  it  come  to  pass— what  against  all  hope  and 
expectation  I  nightly  pray  for  to  Holy  Mary  and  all  saints— that  one  day 
the  entire  complexion  of  things  alters,  and  my  sweet  province  is  once  again 
restored  to  her  proprietor,  then,  by  Heav'n,  I  shall  confer  you  the  title  in 
fact,  lettered  on  sheepskin,  beribboned  in  satin,  signed  by  myself,  and 
stamped  for  the  world  to  gape  at  with  the  Great  Seal  of  Maryland!" 

Ebenezer's  heart  was  too  full  for  words:  color  rushed  to  his  cheeks,  his 
features  jerked  and  boiled,  tears  sprang  to  his  eyes. 

"In  the  meantime/'  Charles  went  on,  "I  shall,  if  t  please  you,  at  least 
commission  you  to  write  the  poem.  Nay,  better,  I'll  pen  thee  a  draft  of  the 
Laureate's  commission,  and  should  God  e'er  grant  me  back  my  Maryland, 
'twill  retroact  to  this  very  day." 


[  108  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"'SheartlTis  past  belief!" 

Charles  had  his  man  fetch  him  paper,  ink,  and  quill,  and  with  the  air  of 
one  accustomed  to  the  language  of  authority,  quickly  penned  the  following 
commission: 

CHARLES  ABSOLUTE  LORD  &  PROPRIETARY  OF  THE  PROVINCES 
OF  MARYLAND  &  AVALON  LORD  BARON  OF  BALTIMORE  &  To 
Our  Trusty  and  Welbeloved  Our  Dear  Ebenezer  Cooke  Esqr  of  Cookes  Poynt 
Dorset  County  Greeting  Whereas  it  is  our  Desire  that  the  Sundrie  Excellencies 
of  Our  Province  of  Maryland  aforesaid  be  set  down  in  Verse  for  Generations 
to  Come  and  Whereas  it  is  Our  Conviction  that  Your  talents  Well  Equip 
You  for  that  Task  &*  We  Do  Will  and  Command  you  upon  the  Faith  which 
You  Owe  unto  Us  that  You  do  compose  and  construct  such  an  Epical  Poem, 
setting  forth  the  Graciousness  of  Marylands  Inhabitants,  Their  Good  Breeding 
and  Excellent  Dwelling-places,  the  Majesty  of  her  Laws,  the  Comfort  of  Her 
Inns  and  Ordinaries  &*  &*  and  to  this  Purpose  We  do  Name  and  Entitle  You 
Poet  and  Laureat  of  the  Province  of  Maryland  Aforesaid.  Witness  Ourself  at 
the  City  of  London  the  twenty-eighth  Day  of  March  in  the  eighteenth  Year 
of  Our  Dominion  over  Our  said  Province  of  Maryland  Annoq  Dom  1694 

"Out  on't!"  he  cried,  handing  the  finished  draft  to  Ebenezer.  "  Tis  done^ 
and  I  wish  you  fair  passage." 

Ebenezer  read  the  commission,  flung  himself  upon  his  knees  before  Lord 
Baltimore,  and  pressed  that  worthy's  coat  hem  to  his  lips  in  gratitude.  Then, 
mumbling  and  stumbling,  he  pocketed  the  document,  excused  himself,  and 
ran  from  the  house  into  the  bustling  streets  of  London. 


ii:    EBENEZER  RETURNS  TO  HIS  COMPANIONS,  FINDS 
THEM  FEWER  BY  ONE,  LEAVES  THEM  FEWER  BY 
ANOTHER,  AND  REFLECTS  A  REFLECTION 


"LOCKET'S!"  CRIED  EBENEZER  TO  ms  CABMAN,  ANT>  SPRANG  INTO  THE 
hackney  with  a  loose  flail  of  limbs  like  a  mismanaged  marionette.  With 
what  a  suddenness  had  he  scaled  the  lofty  reaches  of  Parnassus,  while  his 
companions  blundered  yet  in  the  foothills!  Snatching  out  his  commission, 
he  read  again  the  sweet  word  Laureat  and  the  catalogue  of  Maryland's 
excellencies. 

"Sweet  land!"  he  exclaimed.  "Pregnant  with  song!  Thy  deliverer  ap- 
proachethl" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  log  ] 

There  was  a  conceit  worth  saving,  he  reflected:  such  subtle  vistas  of  mean- 
ing in  the  word  deliverer,  for  instance,  with  its  twin  suggestions  of  midwife 
and  savior!  He  lamented  having  no  pen  nor  any  paper  other  than  Balti- 
more's commission,  which  after  kissing  he  tucked  away  in  his  coat. 

"I  must  purchase  me  a  notebook,"  he  decided.  "  Twere  a  pity  such  wild- 
flowers  should  die  unplucked.  No  more  may  I  think  merely  of  my  own 
delight,  for  a  laureate  belongs  to  the  world/' 

Soon  the  hackney  cab  reached  Locket's,  and  after  rewarding  the  driver 
most  handsomely,  Ebenezer  hurried  to  find  his  colleagues,  whom  he'd  not 
seen  since  the  night  of  the  wager.  Once  inside,  however,  he  assumed  a 
slower,  more  dignified  pace,  in  keeping  with  his  position,  and  weaved 
through  the  crowded  tables  to  where  he  spied  his  friends. 

Dick  Merriweather,  throwing  back  his  head  to  down  a  half  pint  of  sack, 
noticed  him  first. 

"  'Sblood!"  he  shouted.  "Look  ye  yonder,  what  comes  hitherl  Am  I 
addled  with  the  sack,  or  is't  Lazarus  untombed  and  walking?" 

"How  now!"  Tom  Trent  joined  in.  "Hath  the  spring  wind  thawed  ye, 
dear  boy?  I  feared  me  you  was  ossified  for  good  and  all." 

"Thawed?"  said  Ben  Oliver,  and  winked.  "Nay,  Tom,  for  how  could  such 
a  lover  e'er  be  chilled?  'Tis  my  guess  he's  only  now  regained  his  strength 
from  his  mighty  joust  the  night  of  our  wager  and  is  back  to  take  all  comers." 

"Lightly,  Ben,"  reproved  Tom  Trent,  and  glanced  apprehensively  at 
John  McEvoy  beside  him,  who,,  however,  was  entirely  absorbed  in  regarding 
Ebenezer  and  seemed  not  to  have  heard  the  remark.  "  'Tis  unbecoming  a 
good  fellow,  to  hold  a  grudge  so  long  o'er  such  a  trifle." 

"Nay,  nay,"  Ben  insisted.  "What  more  pleasant  or  instructive,  I  ask  you, 
than  to  hear  of  great  deeds  from  the  lips  of  their  doers?  Hither  with  thee, 
Ebenezer  lad.  Take  a  pot  with  us  and  tell  us  all  plainly,  as  a  man  amongst 
men:  What  think  you  now  of  this  Joan  Toast  that  you  did  swive?  How  is 
she  in  the  bed,  I  mean,  and  what  fearsome  bargain  did  you  drive  for  your 
five  guineas,  that  we've  seen  none  of  you  this  entire  week,  or  her  since? 
Marry,  what  a  man!" 

"Curb  your  evil  tongue,"  Ebenezer  commanded  crisply,  taking  a  seat. 
"You  know  the  story  as  well  as  I." 

"Hi!"  cried  Ben,  taken  aback.  "Such  bravery!  What,  will  you  say  naught 
by  way  of  explanation  or  defense  when  a  very  trollop  scorns  you?" 

Ebenezer  shrugged.  "  'Tis  near  as  e'er  she'll  come  to  greatness." 

"Great  Heav'nl"  Tom  Trent  exclaimed,  voicing  the  general  astonish- 


[lio]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

ment.  "Who  is  this  stranger  with  the  brave  replies?  I  know  the  face  and  I 
know  the  voice,  but  b'm'faith,  'tis  not  the  Eben  Cooke  of  old!" 

"Nay,"  agreed  Dick  Merriweather,  "  'tis  some  swaggering  impostor.  The 
Cooke  I  knew  was  e'er  a  shy  fellow,  something  stiff  in  the  joints,  and  no 
great  hand  at  raillery.  Know  you  aught  of  his  whereabouts?"  he  asked 
Ebenezer. 

"Aye"— Ebenezer  smiled— "I  know  him  well,  for  'twas  I  alone  saw  him 
die  and  wrote  his  elegy." 

"And  prithee,  sir,  what  carried  him  off?"  inquired  Ben  Oliver  with  as 
much  of  a  sneer  as  could  be  salvaged  from  his  recent  confounding.  "Belike 
'twas  the  pain  of  unrequited  love?" 

"Your  ignorance  of  the  facts,"  Ebenezer  replied,  "is  matched  only 
by  the  deficiency  of  your  imagination.  The  truth  of  the  matter  is,  sirs,  he 
perished  in  childbirth  the  night  of  the  wager  and  never  learned  that  what 
he'd  been  suffering  was  the  pains  of  labor— the  more  intense,  for  that  he'd 
carried  the  fetus  since  childhood  and  was  brought  to  bed  oft  uncommon 
late.  Howbeit,  'twas  the  world's  good  luck  he  had  him  an  able  midwife, 
who  delivered  full-grown  the  man  you  see  before  you." 

"Ffaith!"  declared  Dick  Merriweather.  "I  have  fair  lost  sight  o'  you  in 
this  Hampton  Court  Hedge  of  a  conceit!  Speak  literally,  £n't  please  you,  if 
only  for  a  sentence,  and  lay  open  plainly  what  is  signified  by  all  this  talk  of 
death  and  midwives  and  the  rest  of  the  allegory." 

"I  shall,"  smiled  Ebenezer,  "but  I  would  Joan  Toast  were  present  to 
hear't,  inasmuch  as  'twas  she  who  played  all  innocently  the  midwife's  part. 
Do  fetch  her,  McEvoy,  that  all  the  world  may  know  I  bear  no  ill  will  towards 
either  of  you.  Albeit  you  acted  from  malice,  yet,  as  the  proverb  hath  it, 
Many  a  thing  groweih  in  the  garden,  that  was  not  planted  there;  or  even 
A  man's  fortune  may  be  made  by  his  enviers.  Certain  it  is,  your  mischief 
bore  fruit  beyond  my  grandest  dreams!  You  said  of  me  once  that  I  compre- 
hend naught  of  life,  and  perchance  'tis  true;  but  you  must  allow  farther 
that  Fools  rush  in  where  wise  men  fear  to  tread,  and  that  A  castle  may  be 
taken  by  storm,  that  ne'er  would  fall  to  siege.  The  fact  is,  I've  wondrous 
news  to  tell.  Will  you  summon  her?" 

Ever  since  Ebenezer's  appearance  in  the  winehouse,  and  throughout  all 
the  raillery  and  allegorizing,  McEvoy  had  sat  quietly,  even  sullenly,  without 
comment  or  apparent  curiosity.  Now,  however,  he  got  up  from  his  place, 
growled  "Summon  her  yourself,  damn  ye!"  and  left  the  tavern  in  a  great 
sulk. 

"What  ails  him?"  asked  Ebenezer.  "The  man  meant  me  a  dastard  injury 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  111  ] 

—doth  it  chagrin  him  that  it  misfired  into  fortune?  Twas  a  civil  request;  did 
I  know  Joan's  whereabouts  I'd  fetch  her  myself." 

"So  I  doubt  not  would  he/'  Ben  Oliver  said. 

"What  is't  you  say?" 

"Did  you  not  hear  it  said  before,"  asked  Tom  Trent,  "that  nor  hide  nor 
hair  of  your  Joan  have  we  seen  these  three  days  past?" 

"I  took  it  for  a  simple  twit,"  said  Ebenezer.  "You  mean  she's  gone  in 
sooth?" 

"Aye,"  affirmed  Dick,  "the  tart  is  vanished  from  sight,  and  not  her  hus- 
band nor  any  soul  else  knows  aught  oft.  The  last  anyone  saw  of  her  was 
the  day  after  the  wager.  She  was  in  a  fearful  fret " 

"I'faith,"  put  in  Ben,  "there  was  no  speaking  to  the  woman!" 

"We  took  it  for  a  pout,"  Dick  went  on,  "forasmuch  as  you'd That  is 

to  say " 

"She'd  scorned  four  guineas  from  a  good  man,"  Ben  declared  in  a  last 
effort  at  contempt,  "and  got  in  exchange  a  penceless  preachment  from " 

"From  Ebenezer  Cooke,  my  friends,"  Ebenezer  finished,  unable  to  hold 
back  the  news  any  longer,  "who  this  very  day  hath  been  named  by  Lord 
Baltimore  to  be  Poet  and  Laureate  of  the  entire  Province  of  Maryland! 
And  you've  not  seen  the  wench  since,  you  say?" 

But  none  heard  the  question:  they  looked  at  each  other  and  at  Ebenezer. 

"Egad!" 

"'Sblood!" 

"Is't  true?  Thou'rt  Laureate  of  Maryland?" 

"Aye,"  said  Ebenezer,  who  actually  had  said  only  that  he'd  been  named 
Laureate,  but  deemed  it  too  late,  among  other  things,  to  clarify  the 
misunderstanding.  "I  sail  a  few  days  hence  for  America,  to  manage  the 
estate  where  I  was  born,  and  by  command  of  Lord  Baltimore  to  do  the 
office  of  Laureate  for  the  colony." 

"Have  you  commission  and  all?"  Tom  Trent  marveled. 

Ebenezer  did  not  hesitate.  "The  Laureate's  commission  is  in  the  writ- 
ing," he  explained,  "but  already  I'm  commissioned  to  turn  him  a  poem." 
He  pretended  to  search  his  pockets  and  came  up  with  the  document  in  his 
coat,  which  he  passed  around  the  table  to  great  effect. 

"By  Heav'n  'tis  true!"  Tom  said  reverently. 

"Laureate  of  Maryland!  It  staggers  me!"  said  Dick. 

"I  will  confess,"  said  Ben,  visibly  awed,  "I'd  ne'er  have  guessed  it  possible. 
But  out  on't!  Here's  a  pot  to  you,  Master  Laureate!  Hi  there,  barman,  a  pint 
all  around!  Come,  Tom!  Ho,  Dick!  Let's  have  a  health,  nowl" 


[  112  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Gladly!" 

"Here's  to  him!" 

"I  hope  I  may  call  it,"  said  Ben,  putting  his  arm  about  Ebenezer's 
shoulders,  "for  'tis  many  a  night  old  Eben's  taken  my  twitting  in  good 
grace,  that  would  have  rankled  a  meaner  spirit.  Twould  be  as  fair  an  honor 
to  propose  this  health  t'you,  friend,  as  'twill  be  for  me  to  pay  for't.  Prithee 
grant  me  that,  and  'twere  proof  of  a  grace  commensurate  to  thy  talent." 

"Your  praise  flatters  me  the  more,"  Ebenezer  said  modestly,  "for  that  I 
know  you— how  well!— to  be  no  flatterer.  Tis  a  double  honor,"  he  pointed 
out  further,  "to  be  toasted  by  such  a  toaster,  and  by  how  much  the  less  I 
merit  your  compliments,  by  so  much  the  more  am  I  humbled  by  'em.  In 
fine,  toast  away  if  you  will,  and  a  long  life  to  you!" 

The  waiter  had  by  this  time  brought  the  pints,  and  the  four  men  raised 
their  glasses. 

"Nay,"  cried  Ben,  thinking  better  of  it,  "all  London  must  know  it!  Hi 
there,,  sots  and  poetasters!"  He  shouted  to  the  house  at  large,  springing  up 
on  the  table.  "Put  by  your  gossip  for  the  nonce  and  drink  a  health  with  me— 
as  worthy  a  health  as  e'er  was  drunk  under  these  rafters!" 

"Nay,  I  beg  you,  Ben!"  Ebenezer  protested,  tugging  Ben's  coat 

"Hear!"  cried  several  patrons,  for  Ben  was  a  favorite  among  them. 

"Drag  off  yon  skinny  fop  and  raise  your  glasses!"  someone  cried. 

"Scramble  up  here,"  Ben  ordered,  and  Ebenezer  was  lifted  willy-nilly  to 
the  table  top,  somewhat  uncertain  about  the  propriety  of  accepting  the 
compliment. 

"To  the  long  life,  good  health,  and  unfailing  talent  of  Ebenezer  Cooke," 
Ben  proposed,  and  everyone  in  the  room  raised  his  glass,  "who  while  we 
lesser  fry  spent  our  energies  braying  and  strutting,  sat  aloof  and  husbanded 
his  own,  and  crowed  him  not  a  crow  nor,  knowing  himself  an  eagle,  cared 
a  bean  what  barnyard  fowl  thought  of  him;  and  who,  therefore,  while  the 
rest  of  us  cocks  must  scratch  our  dunghills  in  feeble  envy,  hath  spread  his 
wings  and  taken  flight,  for  who  can  tell  what  lofty  eyrie!  I  give  thee 
Ebenezer  Cooke,  lads,  twitted  and  teased  by  all— none  more  than  myself— 
who  this  day  was  made  Poet  and  Laureate  of  the  Province  of  Maryland!" 

A  general  murmur  went  round  the  room,  followed  by  a  clamor  of  polite 
congratulation  that  rushed  like  wine  to  Ebenezer's  heaH,  for  it  was  the  first 
such  experience  in  the  entire  span  of  his  life. 

"I  thank  you,"  he  said  thickly  to  the  room,  his  eyes  filling.  "I  can  say 
no  more!" 

"Hear!  Hear!" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [l1?] 

"A  poem,  sir!"  someone  called. 

"Aye,  a  poem!" 

Ebenezer  got  hold  of  himself  and  stayed  the  clamor  with  a  gesture. 
"Nay,"  he  said,  "the  muse  is  no  minstrel,  that  sings  for  a  pot  in  the  taverns; 
besides,  I've  not  a  line  upon  me.  This  is  the  place  for  a  toast,  not  for  poetry, 
and  'twill  greatly  please  me  do  you  join  my  toast  to  my  magnanimous 
patron  Lord  Baltimore " 

A  few  glasses  went  up,  but  not  many,  for  anti-Papist  feeling  was  running 
high  in  London. 

"To  the  Maryland  Muse "  Ebenezer  added,  perceiving  the  small 

response,  and  got  a  few  more  hands  for  his  trouble. 

"To  Poetry,  fairest  of  the  arts"— many  additional  glasses  were  raised— 
"and  to  every  poet  and  good-fellow  in  this  tavern,  which  for  gay  and  gifted 
patrons  hath  not  its  like  in  the  hemisphere!" 

"Hearl"  the  crowd  saluted,  and  downed  the  toast  to  a  man. 

It  was  near  midnight  when  Ebenezer  returned  at  last  to  his  rooms,  dizzy 
from  excessive  wine  and  applause.  He  called  in  vain  for  Bertrand  and  tipsily 
commenced  undressing,  still  very  full  of  his  success.  But  whether  because  of 
the  silence  of  his  room  after  Locket's  or  the  unhappy  sight  of  his  bed  lying 
still  unmade  as  he'd  left  it  in  the  morning,  the  linens  all  rumpled  and  soiled 
from  his  four  days'  despair,  or  some  more  subtle  agency,  his  gaiety  seemed 
to  leave  him  with  his  clothes;  when  at  length  he  had  stripped  himself  of 
shoes,  drawers,  shirt,  and  periwig,  and  stood  shaved,  shorn,  and  mother- 
naked  in  the  center  of  his  room,  his  mind  was  dull,,  his  eyes  listless,  his 
stance  uncertain.  The  great  success  of  his  first  plunge  still  thrilled  him  to 
contemplate,  but  no  longer  was  it  entirely  a  pleasurable  excitement.  His 
stomach  felt  weak.  All  that  Charles  had  told  him  of  the  tumultuous  history 
of  Maryland  came  like  a  bad  dream  to  his  memory,  and  turning  out  the 
lamp  he  hurried  to  the  window  for  fresh  air. 

Despite  the  hour,  London  bristled  in  the  darkness  beneath  and  all  around 
him  with  a  quiet  roar,  from  which  came  at  intervals  here  a  drunkard's 
shout,  there  a  cabman's  curse,  the  laughter  of  a  streetwalker,  the  whinny  of 
a  horse.  A  damp  spring  breeze  moved  in  off  the  Thames  and  breathed  on 
him:  out  there  on  the  river  that  winds  through  the  city,  anchors  were  being 
weighed  and  catted,  sails  unfurled  from  yards  and  sheeted  home,  bearings 
taken,  soundings  called,  and  dark  ships  run  down  the  tide,  out  the  black 
Channel,  and  thence  to  the  boundless  ocean,  cresting  and  tossing  under 
the  moon.  Great  restless  creatures  were  stirring  and  gliding  in  the  depths; 


[114]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

pale  gray  sea  birds  wheeling  and  shrieking  down  the  night  wind,  or  planing 
wildly  against  the  scud.  And  could  one  then  suppose  that  somewhere  far 
out  under  the  stars  there  really  lay  a  Maryland,  against  whose  long  sand 
coasts  the  black  sea  foamed?  That  at  that  very  instant,  peradventure,  some 
naked  Indian  prowled  the  reedy  dunes  or  stalked  his  quarry  down  whisper- 
ing aisles  of  the  forest? 

Ebenezer  shuddered,  turned  from  the  window,  and  drew  the  curtains 
fast.  His  stomach  was  extremely  uneasy.  He  lay  down  on  the  bed  and  tried 
to  sleep,  but  with  no  success:  the  daring  of  his  interview  with  Charles 
Calvert,  and  all  that  followed  on  it,  kept  him  tossing  and  turning  long 
after  his  muscles  had  begun  to  ache  and  his  eyes  to  bum  for  sleep.  The 
specters  of  William  Claiborne,  Richard  Ingle,  William  Penn,  Josias 
Fendall,  and  John  Coode— their  strange  and  terrible  energy,  their  in- 
trigues and  insurrections—chilled  and  sickened  him  but  refused  to  be  driven 
from  his  awareness;  and  he  could  not  give  over  remembering  and  pronounc- 
ing his  title  even  after  repetition  had  taken  pleasure  and  sense  from  the 
epithet  and  left  it  a  nightmare  string  of  empty  sounds.  His  saliva  ran  freely; 
he  was  going  to  be  ill.  Poet  and  Laureate  of  the  Province  of  Maryland! 
He  had  leaped  astride  life  and  set  out  on  his  journey.  There  was  no  turning 
back  now.  Out  under  the  night,  Maryland  and  his  single  mortal  destiny 
awaited  him. 

"Ah,  God!"  he  wept  at  last,  and  sprang  from  the  bed  in  an  icy  sweat. 
Running  to  the  chamber  pot  he  flung  off  the  lid  and  with  a  retch  heaved 
into  it  the  wine  of  his  triumph.  Once  delivered  of  it,  he  felt  somewhat 
calmer:  he  returned  to  the  bed,  clasped  his  knees  against  his  chest  to  quiet 
the  agitation  of  his  stomach,  and  so  contrived,  after  countless  fretful  sighs, 
a  sort  of  sleep. 


PART  II:      GOING  TO  MALDEN 


i:  THE  LAUREATE  ACQUIRES  A  NOTEBOOK 


HAPPILY,  WHATEVER  TREPIDATIONS  OR  DANK  NIGHT  DOUBTS  HAD  LATELY 

plagued  the  Laureate's  repose,  when  the  sun  rose  next  morning  over  Lon- 
don they  were  burned  off  with  the  mist  of  the  Thames;  he  woke  at  nine 
refreshed  in  body  and  spirit,  and,  when  he  remembered  the  happenings  of 
the  day  before  and  his  new  office,  it  was  with  unalloyed  delight. 

"Bertrand!  You,  Bertrandl"  he  called,  springing  from  the  bed.  "Are  you 
there,  fellow?" 

His  man  appeared  at  once  from  the  next  room. 

"Did  you  sleep  well,  sir?" 

"Like  a  silly  babe.  What  a  morning!  It  ravishes  me!" 

"Methought  I  heard  ye  taken  with  the  heaves  last  night." 

"  'Sheart,  a  sour  pint,  belike,  at  Locket's,"  Ebenezer  replied  lightly,  "or 
a  stein  of  green  ale.  Fetch  my  shirt  there,  will  you?  There's  a  good  fellow. 
Egad,  what  smells  as  fresh  as  new-pressed  linen  or  feels  as  clean?" 

"  Tis  a  marvel  ye  threw  it  off  so.  Such  a  groaning  and  a  hollowing!" 

"Indeed?"  Ebenezer  laughed  and  began  to  dress  with  leisurely  care. 
"Nay,  not  those;  my  knit  cottons  today.  Hollowing,  you  say?  Some  passing 
nightmare,  I  doubt  not;  I've  no  memory  oft  Nothing  to  fetch  surgeon  or 
priest  about." 

"Priest,  sir!"  Bertrand  exclaimed  with  a  measure  of  alarm.  "Tis  true, 
then,  what  they  say?" 

"It  may  be,  or  it  may  not.  Who  are  they,  and  what  is  their  story?" 

"Some  have  it,  sir,"  Bertrand  replied  glibly,  "thou'rt  in  Lord  Baltimore's 
employ,  who  all  the  world  knows  is  a  famous  Papist,  and  that  'twas  only  on 
your  conversion  to  Rome  he  gave  ye  your  post." 

"  'Dslife!"  Ebenezer  turned  to  his  man  incredulously.  "What  scurrilous 
libel!  How  came  you  to  hear  it?" 

Bertrand  blushed.  "Begging  your  pardon,  sir,  ye  may  have  marked  ere 
now  that  albeit  I  am  a  bachelor,  I  am  not  without  interest  in  the  ladies, 
and  that,  to  speak  plainly,  I  and  a  certain  young  serving  maid  belowstairs 
have,  ah,  what  ye  might  call  -  " 


[ll8]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"An  understanding,"  Ebenezer  suggested  impatiently.  "Do  I  know  it, 
you  scoundrel?  D'you  think  I've  not  heard  the  twain  of  you  clipping  and 
tumbling  the  nights  away  in  your  room,  when  you  thought  me  asleep? 
I'faith,  'tis  enough  to  wake  the  dead!  If  my  poor  puking  cost  you  an  hour's 
sleep  last  night,  'tis  not  the  hundredth  part  of  what  I  owe  you!  Is't  she  told 
you  this  tale  of  a  cock  and  a  bull?" 

"Aye,"  admitted  Bertrand,  "but  'twas  not  of  her  making." 

'Whence  came  it,  then?  Get  to  the  point,  man!  Tis  a  sorry  matter  when 
a  poet  cannot  accept  an  honor  without  suffering  on  the  instant  the  slanders 
of  the  envious,  or  make  a  harmless  trope  without  his  man's  crying  Popery!" 

"I  crave  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Bertrand.  "  Twas  no  accusation,  only 
concern;  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  tell  ye  what  your  enemies  are  saying.  The 
fact  is,  sir,  my  Betsy,  who  is  a  hot-blooded,  affectionate  lass,  hath  the  bad 
luck  to  be  married,  and  that  to  a  lackluster,  chilly  fellow  whose  only  passions 
are  ambition  and  miserliness,  and  who,  though  he'd  like  a  sturdy  son  to 
bring  home  extra  wages,  is  as  sparing  with  caresses  as  with  coins.  Such  a 
money-grubber  is  he  that,  after  a  day's  work  as  a  clerk's  apprentice  in  the 
Customs  House,  he  labors  half  the  night  as  a  fiddler  in  Locket's  to  put  by 
an  extra  crown,  with  the  excuse  'tis  a  nest  egg  against  the  day  she  finds 
herself  with  child.  But  'sblood,  'tis  such  a  tax  on  his  time  that  he  scarce  sees 
her  from  one  day  to  the  next  and  on  his  strength  that  he  hath  not  the 
wherewithal  to  roger  what  time  he's  with  her!  It  seemed  a  sinful  waste  to 
•  me  to  see,  on  the  one  hand,  poor  Betsy  alone  and  all  a-fidget  for  want  of 
husbanding,  and  on  the  other  her  husband  Ralph  a-hoarding  money  to  no 
purpose,  and  so  like  a  proper  Samaritan  I  did  what  I  could  for  the  both  of 
'em:  Ralph  fiddled  and  I  diddled." 

"How's  that,  you  rascal?  The  both  of  'em!  Small  favor  to  the  husband, 
to  bless  him  with  horns!  What  a  villainy!" 

"Ah,  on  the  contrary,  sir,  if  I  may  say  so,  'twas  a  double  boon  I  did  him, 
for  not  only  did  I  plough  his  field,  which  else  had  lain  fallow,  but  seeded  it 
as  well,  and  from  every  sign  'twill  be  a  bumper  crop  come  fall.  Look  ye, 
sir,  ere  ye  judge  me  a  monster;  the  lad  knew  naught  but  toil  and  thankless 
drudgery  before  and  took  no  pleasure  in't,  save  the  satisfaction  of  drawing 
his  wage.  He  came  home  to  a  wife  who  carped  and  quarreled  for  lack  o'  love 
and  was  set  to  leave  him  for  good,  which  would've  been  the  death  of  him. 
Now  he  works  harder  than  ever,  proud  as  a  peacock  he's  got  a  son  a-building, 
and  his  clerking  and  fiddling  have  changed  from  mere  labor  to  royal  sport. 
As  for  Betsy,  that  was  wont  to  nag  and  bark  at  him  before,  she's  turned 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  119  ] 

sweet  as  a  sugar-tit  and  jumps  to  his  every  whim  and  fancy;  she  would  not 
leave  him  for  the  Duke  o'  York.  Man  and  wife  are  both  the  happier  fort/' 

"And  thou'rt  the  richer  by  a  mistress  that  costs  you  not  a  farthing  to 
keep,"  Ebenezer  added,  "and  on  whom  you  may  get  a  household  of 
bastards  with  impunity!" 

Bertrand  shrugged,  adjusting  his  master's  cravat. 

"As't  happens,  yes,"  he  admitted*  "though  I  hear't  said  that  virtue  is  its 
own  reward." 

"Then  'twas  this  cuckold  of  a  fiddler  started  the  story?"  demanded 
Ebenezer.  "I'll  take  the  wretch  to  court!" 

"Nay,  'twas  but  gossip  he  passed  on  to  Betsy  last  night,  who  passed  it 
on  to  me  this  morning.  He  had  it  from  the  drinkers  at  Locket's,  after  all  the 
toasting  was  done  and  you  were  gone." 

"Unconscionable  envy  and  malice!"  Ebenezer  cried.  "Do  you  believe  it?" 

"Many,  sir,  'tis  no  concern  o'  mine  what  persuasion  ye  follow.  I'll  confess 
I  wondered,  after  Betsy  told  me,  whether  all  thy  hollowing  and  pitching 
last  night  was  not  a  free-for-all  'twixt  you  and  your  conscience,  or  some 
strange  Papish  ceremony,  for  I  know  they've  a  bag  of  'em  for  every  time 
o'day.  B'm'faith,  'twere  mere  good  business,  methinks,  to  take  his  supersti- 
tious vows  for  him,  if  that's  the  condition  for  the  post.  Soon  or  late,  we  all 
must  strike  our  bargains  with  the  world.  Everything  hath  its  price,  and 
yours  was  no  dear  one,  inasmuch  as  neither  milord  Baltimore  nor  any  other 
Jesuit  can  see  what's  in  your  heart.  All  ye  need  do  is  say  him  his  hey-nonny- 
nonnies  whenever  he's  there  to  hear  'em;  as  for  the  rest  of  the  world,  'tis 
none  o'  their  concern  what  office  ye  hold,  or  what  it  cost  ye,  or  who  got  it 
for  ye.  Keep  mum  on't,  draw  your  pay,  and  let  the  Pope  and  the  world 
go  hang." 

"Lord,  hear  the  cynic!"  said  Ebenezer.  "My  word  on't,  Bertrand,  I 
struck  no  bargain  with  Lord  Baltimore^  nor  dickered  and  haggled  any  quid 
pro  quos.  I'm  no  more  Papist  this  morning  than  I  was  last  week,  and  as  for 
salary,  my  office  pays  me  not  a  shilling." 

"  Tis  the  soundest  stand  to  take,"  Bertrand  nodded  knowingly,  "if  any 
man  questions  ye." 

"  'Tis  the  simple  truth!  And  so  far  from  keeping  my  appointment  secret, 
I  mean  to  declare  it  to  all  and  sundry— within  the  bounds  of  modesty,  of 
course/' 

"Ah,  ye'll  regret  that!"  Bertrand  warned.  "If  ye  declare  the  office,  'tis  no 
use  denying  ye  turned  Papist  to  get  it.  The  world  believes  what  it  pleases." 


[  12O  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"And  doth  it  relish  naught  save  slander  and  spite  and  fantastical 
allegation?" 

"  Tis  not  so  fantastic  a  story/'  Bertrand  said,  "though  mind  ye,  I  don't 
say  'tis  true.  There's  a  lot  goes  on  behind  the  scenes,  if  ye  just  but  knew 
it.  More  history's  made  by  secret  handshakes  than  by  battles,  bills,  and 
proclamations!9 

"And  are  all  human  motives  really  so  despicable?" 

"Aye,  sir.  Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Nay,  nay!"  Ebenezer  protested.  "Such  libels  are  but  the  weapon  of  the 
mediocre  against  the  talented.  Those  fops  at  Locket's  daren't  allow  the 
legitimacy  of  my  laureateship,  inasmuch  as  'twere  but  a  declaration  of  their 
own  lack  of  ability.  They  slander  me  to  solace  themselves!  As  for  your 
cynical  philosophy,  that  sees  a  plot  in  every  preferment,  methinks  'tis  but 
mere  wishful  thinking,  the  mark  of  a  domestical  mind,  which  attributes  to 
the  world  at  large  all  the  drama  and  dark  excitement  that  it  fails  to  find 
in  its  own  activity." 

"  Tis  all  above  me,  this  philosophy/'  Bertrand  said.  "I  know  only  what 
they  say." 

"Popery  indeed!  Dear  God,  I  am  ill  of  London!  Fetch  my  traveling  wig, 
Bertrand;  I  shan't  abide  another  day  in  this  place!" 

"Where  will  ye  go,  sir?" 

"To  Plymouth,  by  the  afternoon  coach.  See  to't  my  chests  and  trunks  are 
packed  and  loaded,,  will  you?  'Sheart,  how  shall  I  endure  e'en  another 
morning  in  this  vicious  city?" 

"Plymouth  so  soon,  sir?"  asked  Bertrand, 

"Aye,  the  sooner  the  better.  Have  you  found  a  place?" 

"I  fear  not,  sir.  Tis  a  bad  season  to  seek  one,  my  Betsy  says,  and  'tis  not 
every  place  I'd  take." 

"Ah  well,  no  great  matter.  These  rooms  are  hired  till  April's  end,  and 
thou'rt  free  to  use  'em  if  you  choose.  Your  wage  is  paid  ahead,  and  I've 
another  crown  for  you  if  my  bags  are  on  the  Plymouth  coach  betimes." 

"I  ihank  ye,  sir.  I  would  ye  weren't  going,  I  swear't,  but  ye  may  depend 
on't  your  gear  will  be  stowed  on  the  coach.  Marry,  I'll  not  soon  find  me  a 
civiler  master!" 

"Thou'rt  a  good  fellow,  Bertrand,"  Ebenezer  smiled.  <cWere't  not  for 
my  niggard  allowance,  I'd  freight  thee  to  Maryland  with  me." 

"I'faith,  I've  no  stomach  for  bears  and  salvages,  sir!  An't  please  ye,  I'll 
stay  behind  and  let  my  Betsy  comfort  me  for  losing  ye." 

"Then  good  luck  to  you,"  said  Ebenezer  as  he  left,  "and  may  your  son 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTO*  [  121  ] 

be  a  strapping  fellow.  I  shan't  return  here:  I  mean  to  waste  the  whole 
morning  buying  a  notebook  for  my  voyage,  rather  than  pass  another  minute 
in  Locket's  or  some  other  den  of  gossip.  Haply  I'll  see  you  at  the  posthouse." 
"Good  day  then,  sir,"  Bertrand  said,  "and  fare  thee  welll" 

Irksome  as  was  his  false  friends'  slander,  it  soon  slipped  from  Ebenezer's 
mind  once  he  was  out  of  doors.  The  day  was  too  fair,  his  spirits  too  high,  for 
him  to  brood  much  over  simple  envy.  "Leave  small  thoughts  to  small 
minds,"  said  he  to  himself,  and  so  dismissed  the  matter. 

Much  more  important  was  the  business  at  hand:  choosing  and  purchasing 
a  notebook.  Already  his  delicious  trope  of  the  day  before,  which  he'd 
wanted  to  set  down  for  future  generations,  was  gone  from  his  memory;  how 
many  others  in  years  gone  by  had  passed  briefly  through  his  mind,  like 
lovely  women  through  a  room,  and  gone  forever?  It  must  happen  no  more. 
Let  the  poetaster  and  occasional  dabbler-in-letters  affect  that  careless  fe- 
cundity which  sneers  at  notes  and  commonplace  books:  the  mature  and 
dedicated  artist  knows  better,  hoards  every  gem  he  mines  from  the  mother 
lode  of  fancy,  and  at  his  leisure  sifts  the  diamonds  from  the  lesser  stones. 

He  went  to  the  establishment  of  one  Benjamin  Bragg,  at  the  Sign  of  the 
Raven  in  Paternoster  Row— a  printer,  bookseller,  and  stationer  whom  he 
and  many  of  his  companions  patronized.  The  shop  was  a  clearinghouse  for 
minor  literary  gossip;  Bragg  himself— a  smiling,  waspish,  bright-eyed,  honey- 
voiced  little  man  in  his  forties  of  whom  it  was  rumored  that  he  was  a 
Sodomite— knew  virtually  everyone  of  literary  pretensions  in  the  city,  and 
though  he  was,  after  all,  but  a  common  tradesmen,  his  favor  was  much 
sought  after.  Ebenezer  had  been  uncomfortable  in  the  place  ever  since  his 
first  introduction  to  the  proprietor  and  clientele  some  years  before.  He  had 
always,  until  the  previous  day,  been  of  at  least  two  minds  about  his  own 
talent,  as  about  everything  else— confident  on  the  one  hand  (From  how 
many  hackle-raising  ecstasies!  From  how  many  transports  of  inspiration!) 
that  he  was  blessed  with  the  greatest  gift  since  blind  John  Milton's  and 
was  destined  to  take  literature  singlehandedly  by  the  breech  and  stand  it 
upon  its  periwig;  equally  certain,  on  the  other  (From  how  many  sloughs 
of  gloom,  hours  of  museless  vacancy,  downright  immobilities!)  that  .he  was 
devoid  even  of  talent,  to  say  nothing  of  genius;  a  bumbler,  a  stumbler,  a 
witless  poser  like  many  another— and  his  visits  to  Bragg's  place,  whose 
poised  habitues  reduced  him  to  mumbling  ataxia  in  half  an  instant,  never 
failed  to  convert  him  to  the  latter  opinion,  though  in  other  circumstances 


[  122  ]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

he  could  explain  away  their  cleverness  to  his  advantage.  In  any  case,  he  was 
in  the  habit  of  disguising  his  great  uneasiness  with  the  mask  of  diffidence, 
and  Bragg  rarely  noticed  him  at  all. 

It  was  to  his  considerable  satisfaction,  therefore,  that  when  this  time  he 
entered  the  establishment  and  discreetly  asked  one  of  the  apprentices  to 
show  him  some  notebooks,  Bragg  himself,  catching  sight  of  him,  dismissed 
the  boy  and  left  the  short,  wigless  customer  with  whom  he'd  been  gossiping 
in  order  to  serve  him  personally. 

"Dear  Mr.  Cooke!"  he  cried.  "You  must  accept  my  felicitations  on  your 
distinction!" 

"What?  Oh,  indeed/'  Ebenezer  smiled  modestly.  "However  did  you  hear 
oft  so  soon?" 

"So  soon!"  Bragg  warbled.  "Tis  the  talk  o'  London!  I  had  it  yesterday 
from  dear  Ben  Oliver,  and  today  from  a  score  of  others.  Laureate  of 
Maryland!  Tell  me,"  he  asked,  with  careful  ingenuousness,  "was't  by  Lord 
Baltimore's  appointment,  as  some  say,  or  by  the  King's?  Ben  Oliver  declares 
'twas  from  Baltimore  and  vows  he'll  turn  Quaker  and  seek  the  same  of 
William  Penn  for  Pennsylvania!" 

"'Twas  Lord  Baltimore  honored  me,"  Ebenezer  replied  coolly,  "who, 
though  a  Romanist,  is  as  civil  a  gentleman  as  any  I've  met  and  hath  a 
wondrous  ear  for  verse." 

"I  am  certain  oft,"  Bragg  agreed,  "though  I've  ne'er  met  the  man. 
Prithee,  sir,  how  came  he  to  know  your  work?  We're  all  of  us  a-flutter  to 
read  you,  yet  search  as  I  may  I  can't  find  a  poem  of  yours  in  print,  nor  hath 
anyone  I've  asked  heard  so  much  as  a  line  of  your  verse.  Marry,  I'll  confess 
it:  we  scarce  knew  you  wrote  any!" 

"A  man  may  love  his  house  and  yet  not  ride  on  the  ridgepole,"  observed 
Ebenezer,  "and  a  man  may  be  no  less  a  poet  for  not  declaiming  in  every 
inn  and  ordinary  or  printing  up  his  creatures  to  be  peddled  like  chestnuts 
on  London  Bridge." 

"Well  said!"  Bragg  chortled,  clapped  his  hands,  and  bounced  on  his  heels. 
"Oh,  pungently  put!  'Twill  be  repeated  at  every  table  in  Locket's  for  a 
fortnight!  Ah,  'slife,  masterfully  put!"  He  dabbed  his  eyes  with  his  handker- 
chief. "Would  you  tell  me,  Mr.  Cooke,  if  t  be  not  too  prying  a  question, 
whether  Lord  Baltimore  did  you  this  honor  in  the  form  of  a  recommenda- 
tion for  King  William  and  the  Governor  of  Maryland  to  approve,  or 
whether  'tis  still  in  Baltimore's  power  to  make  and  fill  official  posts?  There 
was  some  debate  on  the  matter  here  last  evening." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  123  ] 

"I  daresay  there  was,"  Ebenezer  said.  "Tis  my  good  fortune  I  missed 
it.  Is't  your  suggestion  Lord  Baltimore  would  willfully  o'erstep  his  authority 
and  exercise  rights  he  hath  no  claim  to?" 

"Oh,  Heav'n  forbid!"  cried  Bragg,  wide-eyed.  "  Twas  the  farthest  thing 
from  my  mind,  sir!  Oh,  'sheart!  'Twas  a  mere  civil  question,  b'm'faithl  No 
slight  intended!" 

"So  be't.  Let  us  have  done  with  questions  now,  lest  I  miss  the  Plymouth 
coach.  Will  you  show  me  some  notebooks?" 

"Indeed,  sir,  at  once!  What  sort  of  notebook  had  you  in  mind?" 

"What  sort?"  repeated  Ebenezer.  "Are  there  sorts  of  notebooks,  then?  I 
knew't  not.  No  matter— any  sort  will  serve,  I  daresay.  'Tis  but  to  take  notes 
in." 

"Long  notes,  sir,  or  short  ones?" 

"How?  What  a  question!  How  should  I  know?  Both,  I  suppose!" 

"Ah.  And  will  you  take  these  long  and  short  notes  at  home,  sir,  or  while 
traveling?" 

"Ffaith,,  what  difference  to  you?  Both,  I  should  think.  A  mere  silly  note- 
book is  all  my  craving." 

"Patience,  sir;  'tis  only  to  make  certain  I  sell  you  naught  but  fits  thy 
need.  The  man  -who  knows  what  he  needs,  they  say,  gets  what  he  wants; 
but  he  who  knows  not  his  mind  is  forever  at  sixes  and  sevens  and  blames 
the  blameless  world  fort." 

"Enough  wisdom,  I  beg  you,"  Ebenezer  said  uncomfortably.  "Sell  me  a 
notebook  fit  for  long  or  short  notes,  both  at  home  and  abroad,  and  have 
done  with't." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  Bragg  said.  "Only  I  must  know  another  wee  thing." 

"I'faith,  'tis  a  Cambridge  examination!  What  is't  now?" 

"Is't  thy  wont  to  make  these  notes  always  at  a  desk,  whether  at  home  or 
abroad,  or  do  you  jot  'em  down  as  they  strike  you,  whether  strolling,  riding, 
or  resting?  And  if  the  latter,  do  you  yet  ne'er  pen  'em  in  the  public  view, 
or  is't  public  be  damned,  ye'll  write  where't  please  you?  And  if  the  latter, 
would  you  have  'em  think  you  a  man  whose  taste  is  evidenced  by  all  he 
owns;  who  is,  you  might  say,,  in  love  with  the  world?  A  Geoffrey  Chaucer? 
A  Will  Shakespeare?  Or  would  you  rather  they  took  you  for  a  Stoical 
fellow,  that  cares  not  a  fig  for  this  vale  of  imperfections,  but  hath  his  eye 
fixed  always  on  the  Everlasting  Beauties  of  the  Spirit:  a  Plato,  I  mean,  or  a 
Don  John  Donne?  'Tis  most  necessary  I  should  know." 

Ebenezer  smote  the  counter  with  his  fist.  "Damn  you,  fellow,  thou'rt 


r  12A  ]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

pulling  my  leg  for  fair!  Is't  some  wager  you've  made  with  yonder  gentle- 
man, to  have  me  act  the  fool  for  him?  Marry,  'twas  my  retching  hate  of 
raillers  and  hypocrites  that  drove  me  here,  to  spend  my  final  London  morn 
sequestered  among  the  implements  of  my  craft,  like  a  soldier  in  his  armory 
or  a  mariner  in  the  ship  chandler's;  but  I  find  no  simple  sanctuary  even 
here.  By  Heav'n,  I  think  not  even  Nero's  lions  were  allowed  in  the 
dungeons  where  the  martyrs  prayed  and  fortified  themselves,  but  had  to 
stay  their  hunger  till  the  wretches  were  properly  in  the  arena.  Will  you  deny 
me  that  small  solace  ere  I  take  ship  for  the  wilderness?" 

"Forbear,  sir;  do  forbear,"  Bragg  pleaded,  "and  think  no  ill  of  yonder 
gentleman,  who  is  a  perfect  stranger  to  me." 

"Very  well.  But  explain  yourself  at  once  and  sell  me  a  common  notebook 
such  as  a  poet  might  find  useful  who  is  as  much  a  Stoic  as  an  Epicurean." 

"I  crave  no  more  than  to  do  just  that,"  Bragg  declared.  "But  I  must 
know  whether  you'll  have  the  folio  size  or  the  quarto.  The  folio,  I  might 
say,  is  good  for  poets,  inasmuch  as  an  entire  poem  can  oft  be  set  on  facing 
pages,  where  you  can  see  it  whole." 

"Quite  sound,"  Ebenezer  acknowledged.  "Folio  it  is/7 

"On  the  other  hand,  the  quarto  is  more  readily  lugged  about,  particularly 
when  thou'rt  walking  or  on  horseback." 

"True,  true,"  Ebenezer  admitted. 

"In  the  same  way,  a  cardboard  binding  is  cheap  and  hath  a  simple 
forthright  air;  but  leather  is  hardier  for  traveling,  more  pleasing  to  behold, 
and  more  satisfying  to  own.  What's  more,  I  can  give  ye  unruled  sheets, 
such  as  free  the  fancy  from  mundane  restraints,  accommodate  any  size  of 
hand,  and  make  a  handsome  page  when  writ;  or  ruled  sheets,  which  save 
time,  aid  writing  in  carriages  or  aboard  ships,  and  keep  a  page  neat  as  a 
pin.  Finally,  ye  may  choose  a  thin  book,  easy  to  cany  but  soon  filled,  or  a 
fat  one,  cumbersome  to  travel  with  but  able  to  store  years  of  thought  'twixt 
single  covers.  Which  shall  be  the  Laureate's  notebook?" 

"  'Sbodikins!  I  am  wholly  fuddled!  Eight  species  of  common  notebook?" 

"Sixteen,  sir;  sixteen,  if  I  may,"  Bragg  said  proudly.  "Ye  may  have 

A  thin  plain  cardboard  folio, 

A  thin  plain  cardboard  quarto, 

A  thin  plain  leather  folio, 

A  thin  ruled  cardboard  folio, 

A  fat  plain  cardboard  folio, 

A  thin  plain  leather  quarto, 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  125  ] 

A  thin  ruled  cardboard  quarto, 

A  fat  plain  cardboard  quarto, 

A  thin  ruled  leather  folio, 

A  fat  ruled  cardboard  folio, 

A  fat  plain  leather  folio, 

A  thin  ruled  leather  quarto, 

A  fat  ruled  cardboard  quarto, 

A  fat  plain  leather  quarto, 

A  fat  ruled  leather  folio,  or 

A  fat  ruled  leather  quarto." 

"Stop!"  cried  Ebenezer,  shaking  his  head  as  though  in  pain.  "Tis  the 
Pit!" 

"I  may  say  also  I'm  expecting  some  lovely  half-moroccos  within  the  week, 
and  if  need  be  I  can  secure  finer  or  cheaper  grades  of  paper  than  what 
I  stock." 

"Have  at  thee,  Sodomite!"  Ebenezer  shouted,  drawing  his  short-sword. 
"Tis  thy  life  or  mine,  for  another  of  thy  evil  options* and  I  am  lost!" 

"Peace!  Peace!"  the  printer  squealed,  and  ducked  under  his  serving- 
counter. 

"Peace  Peace  we'll  have  do  I  reach  thee,"  Ebenezer  threatened;  "nor  no 
mere  pair  of  pieces,  either,  b'm'faith,  but  sixteen  count!" 

"Stay,  Master  Laureate,"  urged  the  short,  wigless  customer;  he  came  from 
across  the  shop,  where  he'd  been  listening  with  interest  to  the  colloquy, 
and  placed  his  hand  on  Ebenezer's  sword  arm.  "Calm  your  wrath,  ere't 
lead  ye  to  blight  your  office." 

"Eh?  Ah,  to  be  sure,"  sighed  Ebenezer,  and  sheathed  his  sword  with 
some  embarrassment.  "  'Tis  the  soldier's  task  to  fight  battles,  is't  not,  and 
the  poet's  to  sing  'em.  But  marry,  who  dares  call  himself  a  man  that  will  not 
fight  to  save  his  reason?" 

"And  who  dares  call  himself  reasonable,"  returned  the  stranger,  "that 
will  so  be  swayed  by's  passions  as  to  take  arms  against  a  feckless  shopkeeper? 
Tis  thy  quandary,  do  I  see't  aright,  that  all  these  notebooks  have  their 
separate  virtues,  yet  none  is  adequate,  inasmuch  as  your  purposes  range 
'twixt  contradictories." 

"You  have't  firmly,"  Ebenezer  admitted. 

"Then  'tis  by  no  means  this  poor  knave's  fault,  d'ye  think,  that  he  gives 
ye  options?  He's  more  to  be  praised  than  braised  for't.  Put  by  your  anger, 
for  Anger  begins  with  folly  and  ends  with  repentance;  it  makes  a  rich  man 


[  126  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

hated  and  a  poor  man  scorned,  and  so  far  from  solving  problems,  only 
multiplies  'em.  Follow  rather  the  sweet  light  of  Reason,  which  like  the 
polestar  leads  the  wise  helmsman  safe  to  port  through  the  unruly  seas  of 
passion." 

"Ah,  you  chasten  me,  friend,"  said  Ebenezer.  "Out  with  you,  Ben  Bragg, 
and  never  fear:  I'm  my  own  man  again." 

"  'Sheart,  thou'rt  a  spirited  fellow  for  a  poet!"  Bragg  exclaimed,  reappear- 
ing from  under  the  counter. 

"Forgive  me." 

"There's  a  good  fellow!"  said  the  stranger.  "Anger  glances  into  wise  men's 
breasts,  but  rests  only  in  the  bosoms  of  fools.  Heed  no  voice  but  Reason's." 

"Good  counsel,  I  grant  thee,"  Ebenezer  said.  "But  I'll  own  it  passeth 
my  understanding  how  Solomon  himself  could  reconcile  opposites  and 
make  a  plain  book  elegant  or  a  fat  book  thin.  Not  all  the  logic  of  Aquinas 
could  contrive  it!" 

"Then  look  past  him,"  said  the  stranger  with  a  smile,  "to  Aristotle  himself, 
and  where  you  find  opposite  extremes,  seek  always  the  Golden  Mean.  Thus 
Reason  dictates:  Compromise,  Mr.  Cooke;  compromise.  Adieu." 

With  that  the  fellow  left,  before  Ebenezer  could  thank  him  or  even 
secure  his  name. 

"Who  was  that  gentleman?"  he  asked  Bragg. 

"  'Twas  one  Peter  Sayer,"  Bragg  replied,  "that  just  commissioned  me  to 
print  him  some  broadsides—more  than  that  I  know  not," 

"No  native  Londoner,  I'll  wager.  What  a  wondrous  wise  fellow!" 

"And  wears  his  natural  hair!"  sighed  the  printer.  "What  think  ye  of  his 
advice?" 

"  'Tis  worthy  a  Chief  Justice,"  Ebenezer  declared,  "and  I  mean  to  carry 
it  out  at  once.  Fetch  me  a  notebook  neither  too  thick  nor  too  thin,  too  tall 
nor  too  small,  too  simple  nor  too  elegant.  Twill  be  Aristotle  from  start 
to  finish!" 

"Your  pardon,  sir,"  Bragg  protested;  "I  have  already  named  my  whole 
stock  over,  and  there's  not  a  Golden  Mean  in  the  lot.  Yet  I  think  ye  might 
purchase  a  book  and  alter  it  to  suit." 

"How,  prithee,"  Ebenezer  asked,  looking  nervously  to  the  door  through 
which  Sayer  had  made  his  exit,  "when  I  know  no  more  of  bookmaking  than 
doth  a  bookseller  of  poetry?" 

"Peace,  peace!"  urged  Bragg.  "Remember  the  voice  of  Reason." 

"So  be't,"  Ebenezer  said.  "Every  man  to  his  trade,  as  Reason  hath  it 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  12J  ] 

Here's  a  pound  for  book  and  alterations.  Commence  at  once,  nor  let  your 
eye  drift  e'en  for  an  instant  from  the  polestar  of  Reason." 

'Very  good,  sir,"  Bragg  replied,  pocketing  the  money.  "Now,  'tis  but 
reasonable,  is't  not,  that  a  long  board  may  be  sawn  short,  but  a  short  board 
may  not  be  stretched?  And  a  fat  book,  likewise,  may  be  thinned,  but  ne'er 
a  thin  book  fattened?" 

"No  Christian  man  can  say  you  nay,"  Ebenezer  agreed. 

"So,  then,"  said  Bragg,  taking  a  handsome,  fat,  unruled  leather  folio  from 
the  shelf,  "we  take  us  a  great  stout  fellow,  spread  him  open  thusly,  and 
compromise  him!"  Pressing  the  notebook  flat  open  upon  the  counter,  he 
ripped  out  several  handfuls  of  pages. 

"Whoa!  Stay!"  cried  Ebenezer. 

"Then,"  Bragg  went  on,  paying  him  no  heed,  "since  Reason  tells  us  a 
fine  coat  may  wear  shabby,  but  ne'er  a  cheap  coat  fine,  we'll  just  compromise 

this  morocco  here  and  there "  He  snatched  up  a  letter  opener  near  at 

hand  and  commenced  to  hack  and  gouge  the  leather  binding. 

"Hold,  there!  I'faith,  my  notebook!" 

"As  for  the  pages,"  Bragg  continued,  exchanging  the  letter  opener  for 
goose  quill  and  inkpot,  "ye  may  rule  'em  as't  please  ye,  with  Reason  as  the 
guide:  sidewise"— he  scratched  recklessly  across  a  half-dozen  pages— 
"lengthwise"— he  penned  hasty  verticals  on  the  same  pages—"  or  what  ye 
will!"  He  scribbled  at  random  through  the  whole  notebook, 

"'Sbody!  My  pound!" 

"Which  leaves  only  the  matter  of  size,"  Bragg  concluded:  "He  must  be 
smaller  than  a  folio,  yet  taller  than  a  quarto.  Hark  ye,  now:  methinks  the 
voice  of  Reason  orders " 

"Compromise!"  Ebenezer  shouted,  and  brought  down  his  sword  upon  the 
mutilated  notebook  with  such  a  mighty  chop  that,  had  Bragg  not  just  then 
stepped  back  to  contemplate  his  creation  he'd  surely  have  contemplated  his 
Creator.  The  covers  parted;  the  binding  let  go;  pages  flew  in  all  directions. 
"Tfort  for  your  damned  Golden  Mean!" 

"Madman!"  Bragg  cried,  and  ran  out  into  the  street.  "Oh,  dear,  help! 
Madman!" 

There  was  no  time  to  lose:  Ebenezer  sheathed  his  sword,  snatched  up 
the  first  notebook  he  spied— which  happened  to  be  lying  near  at  hand,  over 
the  cash  drawer— and  fled  to  the  rear  of  the  store,  through  the  print  shop 
(where  two  apprentices  looked  up  in  wonder  from  their  work) ,  and  out  the 
back  door. 


:  THE  LAUREATE  DEPARTS  FROM  LONDON 


THOUGH  SEVERAL  HOURS  YET  REMAINED  BEFORE  DEPARTURE  TIME,  EBENE- 

zer  went  from  Bragg  s  directly  to  the  posthouse,  ate  an  early  dinner,  and 
sipped  ale  restlessly  while  waiting  for  Bertrand  to  appear  with  his  trunk. 
Never  had  the  prospect  of  going  to  Maryland  seemed  so  pleasant:  he  longed 
to  be  off!  For  one  thing,  after  the  adventure  in  Bragg's  establishment  he 
was  more  than  ever  disgusted  with  London;  for  another,  he  rather  feared 
that  Bragg,  to  whom  he'd  mentioned  the  Plymouth  coach,  might  send  men 
after  him,  though  he  was  certain  his  pound  was  more  than  adequate  pay- 
ment for  both  notebooks.  And  there  was  another  reason:  his  heart  still  beat 
faster  when  he  recalled  his  swordplay  of  an  hour  before,  and  his  face  flushed. 

'What  a  gesture!"  he  thought  admiringly.  "'That  for  your  damned 
Golden  Mean!'  Well  said  and  well  done!  How  it  terrified  the  knave,  f  faith! 
A  good  beginning!"  He  laid  his  notebook  on  the  table:  it  was  quarto  size, 
about  an  inch  thick,  with  cardboard  covers  and  a  leather  spine.  "Tis  not 
what  Fd  have  chosen"  he  reflected  without  sorrow,  "but  'twas  manfully 
got,  and  'twill  do,  'twill  do.  Barman!"  he  called,  "Ink  and  quill,  if  you 
please!"  The  writing  materials  fetched,  he  opened  the  notebook  in  order  to 
pen  a  dedication:  to  his  surprise  he  found  already  inscribed  on  the  first  page 
B.  Bragg,  Printer  &  Stationer,  Sign  of  the  Raven,  Paternoster  Row,  London, 
1694,  and  on  the  second  and  third  and  fourth  such  entries  as  BdngZe  & 
Son,  glaziers,  for  window-glass,  13/4,  and  /no.  Eastbury,  msc  printing,  1/3/9 

"'Sblood!  Tis  Bragg's  account  book!  A  common  ledger!"  Investigating 
further  he  found  that  only  the  first  quarter  of  the  book  had  been  used:  the 
last  entry,  dated  that  same  day,  read  CoZ.  Peter  Sayer,  broadsides,  2/5/0. 
The  remaining  pages  were  untouched.  "So  be't,"  he  smiled,  and  ripped  out 
the  used  sheets. ' 'Was't  not  my  aim  to  keep  strict  account  of  my  traffic  with 
the  muse?"  Inking  his  quill,  he  wrote  across  the  first  new  page  Ebenezer 
Cooke,  Poet  &  Laureate  of  Maryland  and  then  observed  (it  being  a  ledger 
of  the  double-entry  variety)  that  his  name  fell  in  the  Debit  column  and 
his  title  in  the  Credit. 

"Nay,  'twill  never  do,"  he  decided,  "for  to  call  my  office  an  asset  to  me 
is  but  to  call  me  a  liability  to  my  office."  He  tore  out  the  sheet  and  reversed 
the  inscription.  "Yet  Poet  and  Laureate  Eben  Cooke  is  as  untrue  as  the 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  12Q  ] 

other,"  he  reflected,  "for  while  I  hope  to  be  a  credit  to  my  post,  yet  surely 
the  post  is  no  liability  to  me.  Twere  fitter  the  thing  were  done  sidewise 
down  the  credit  line,  to  signify  the  mutual  benefit  of  title  and  man."  But 
before  he  tore  out  the  second  sheet  it  occurred  to  him  that  "credit"  was 
meaningless  except  as  credit  to  somebody— and  yet  anything  he  entered  to 
receive  it  became  a  liability.  For  a  moment  he  was  frantic. 

"Stay!"  he  commanded  himself,  perspiring.  "The  fault  is  not  in  the 
nature  of  the  world,  but  in  Bragg's  categories.  I'll  merely  paste  my  commis- 
sion over  the  whole  title  page." 

He  called  for  glue,  but  when  he  searched  his  pockets  for  the  commission 
from  Lord  Baltimore,  he  found  it  not  in  any  of  them. 

"A'gad!  Tis  in  the  coat  I  wore  last  night  at  Locket's,  that  Bertrand  hath 
packed  away  for  me!" 

He  went  searching  about  the  posthouse  for  his  man,  without  success.  But 
in  the  street  outside,  where  the  carriage  was  being  made  ready,  he  was 
astonished  to  find  no  other  person  than  his  sister  Anna. 

"Marry!"  he  cried,  and  hurried  to  embrace  her.  "People  vanish  and  ap- 
pear to  me  of  late  as  in  a  Drury  Lane  comedy!  How  is  it  thou'rt  in  London?" 

"To  see  thee  off  to  Plymouth,"  Anna  said.  Her  voice  was  no  longer  girlish, 
but  had  a  hard,  flat  tone  to  it,  and  one  would  have  put  her  age  closer  to 
thirty-five  than  twenty-eight  years.  "Father  forbade  it  but  would  not  come 
himself,  and  so  I  stole  away  and  be  damned  to  him."  She  stepped  back 
and  examined  her  brother.  "Ah  faith,  thou'rt  grown  thinner,  Eben!  I've 
heard  'twere  wise  to  fatten  up  for  an  ocean  passage." 

"I  had  but  a  week  to  fatten,"  Ebenezer  reminded  her.  During  his  sojourn 
at  Paggen's  he  had  seen  Anna  not  more  than  once  a  year,  and  he  was  greatly 
moved  by  the  alteration  in  her  appearance. 

She  lowered  her  eyes,  and  he  blushed. 

"I'm  looking  for  that  great  cynical  servant  of  mine,"  he  said  gaily,  turning 
away.  "You've  not  seen  him,  I  suppose?" 

"You  mean  Bertrand?  I  sent  him  off  myself  not  five  minutes  past,  when 
he'd  got  all  your  baggage  on  the  coach." 

"Ah,  there's  a  pity.  I  had  promised  him  a  crown  fort." 

"And  I  gave  it  him,  from  Father's  money.  He'll  be  back  at  St.  Giles,  I 
think,  for  Mrs.  Twigg  hath  a  ferment  of  the  blood  and  is  not  given  long 
to  live." 

"Nay!  Dear  old  Twigg!  'Tis  a  pity  to  lose  her." 

They  stood  about  awkwardly.  Turning  his  head  to  avoid  looking  her  in 


[  130  ]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

the  eye,  Ebenezer  caught  sight  of  the  wigless  fellow  of  the  bookstore,  Peter 
Saver,  standing  idly  by  the  corner. 

"Did  Bertrand  tell  you  aught  of  my  preferment?"  he  asked  cheerfully. 

"Aye,  he  spoke  oft.  I'm  proud."  Anna's  manner  was  distracted.  "Eben 
"  She  grasped  his  arm.  ' Was't  true,  what  that  letter  said?"  Great  con- 
cern was  evident  in  her  face. 

Ebenezer  laughed,  somewhat  nettled  at  Anna's  lack  of  interest  in  his 
laureateship.  "  'Twas  true  I'd  got  nowhere  at  Peter  Paggen's,  in  all  those 
years.  And  'twas  true  a  woman  was  in  my  chamber." 

"And  did  you  deceive  her?"  his  sister  asked  anxiously. 

"I  did,"  Ebenezer  said.  Anna  turned  away  and  caught  her  breath. 

"Stay!"  he  cried.  "  Twas  not  at  all  in  the  way  you  think.  I  deceived  her 
inasmuch  as  she  was  a  whore  that  came  to  me  to  be  employed  for  five 
guineas;  but  I  took  a  great  love  for  her  and  would  neither  lay  nor  pay  her 
on  those  terms." 

Anna  wiped  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him.  "Is't  true?" 

"Aye,"  Ebenezer  laughed.  "Haply  you'll  judge  me  not  a  man  for't,  Anna, 
but  I  swear  I  am  as  much  a  virgin  now  as  the  day  we  were  born.  What, 
thou'rt  weeping  again!" 

"But  not  for  sorrow,"  Anna  said,  embracing  him.  "Do  you  know, 
Brother,  I  had  come  to  think  since  you  went  to  Magdalene  College  we  no 
longer  knew  each  other— but  it  may  be  I  was  wrong." 

Ebenezer  was  moved  by  this  statement,  but  a  trifle  embarrassed  when 
Anna  squeezed  him  more  tightly  before  releasing  him,  Passersby,  including 
Peter  Sayer  on  the  corner,  turned  their  heads  to  look  at  them:  doubtless 
they  looked  like  parting  lovers.  Yet  he  was  ashamed  at  being  embarrassed. 
He  moved  closer  to  the  coach,  to  prevent  too  gross  a  misunderstanding, 
and  took  his  sister's  hand,  at  least  partly  to  forestall  further  embraces. 

"Do  you  ever  think  of  the  past?"  Anna  asked. 

"Aye." 

"What  wondrous  times  we  had!  Do  you  remember  how  we  used  to  talk 
for  hours  after  Mrs.  Twigg  had  turned  out  the  lamp?"  Tears  sprang  again 
to  her  eyes.  "I'faith,  I  miss  you,  Ebenl" 

Ebenezer  patted  her  hand. 

"And  I  thee,"  he  said,  sincerely  but  uncomfortably.  I  remember  one 
day  when  we  were  thirteen,  you  were  ill  in  bed  with  a  fever,  and  so 
Henry  and  I  went  alone  to  tour  Westminster  Abbey.  Twas  my  first  whole 
day  apart  from  you,  and  by  dinnertime  I  missed  you  so  sorely  I  begged 
Henry  to  take  me  home.  But  we  went  instead  to  St  James's  Park, 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  131  ] 

and  after  supper  to  Dukes  Theater  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  and  'twas  far 
past  midnight  ere  we  reached  home.  I  felt  ten  years  older  for  the  day's 
adventure  and  could  not  see  for  the  life  of  me  how  I'd  e'er  be  able  to  tell 
you  the  whole  oft.  I'd  had  my  first  meal  away  from  home,  been  to  my  first 
theater,  and  tasted  my  first  brandy.  We  talked  of  nothing  else  for  weeks 
but  that  day,  and  still  I'd  remember  trifles  I'd  forgot  to  tell  you.  'Twould 
give  me  pain  to  think  of  them,  and  at  length  I  came  to  regret  ever  having 
gone  and  told  Henry  so,  for't  seemed  to  me  you'd  ne'er  catch  up  after 
that  day." 

"I  recall  it  as  if  'twere  but  last  week,"  Anna  said.  "How  many  times 
I've  wondered  whether  you'd  forgot  it."  She  sighed.  "And  I  never  did  catch 
up!  Query  as  I  might,  there  was  no  getting  the  whole  story.  The  awful 
truth  oft  was,  I'd  not  been  there  to  see!" 

Ebenezer  interrupted  her  with  a  laugh.  "Marry,  e'en  now  I  recall  some- 
thing of  it  I  forgot  to  tell  you!  After  supper  at  some  Pall  Mall  tavern  on 
that  day,  I  waited  a  half  hour  alone  at  the  table  while  Henry  went  upstairs 

for  one  reason  or  another "  He  stopped  and  blushed  scarlet,  suddenly 

realizing,  after  fifteen  years,  what  in  all  probability  Henry  Burlingame  had 
gone  upstairs  for.  Anna,  however,  to  his  relief,  showed  no  sign  of  under- 
standing. 

"The  wine  had  gone  to  my  head,  and  everyone  looked  odd  to  me,  none 
less  than  myself.  'Twas  then  I  composed  my  first  poem,  in  my  head.  A  little 
quatrain.  Nay,  I  must  confess  'twas  no  slip  of  memory:  I  kept  it  secret, 
Heav'n  knows  why.  I  can  e'en  recite  it  now: 

Figures,  so  strange,  no  GOD  design' d 
To  be  a  Part  of  Human-kind: 
"But  wanton  Nature  .  .  . 

La,  I  forget  the  rest.  'Sheart,"  he  said,  resolving  happily  to  record  the  little 
verse  in  his  notebook  as  soon  as  he  boarded  the  carriage,  "and  since  then 
what  years  we've  spent  apart!  What  crises  and  adventures  we  each  have 
had,  that  the  other  knows  naught  of!  'Tis  a  pity  all  the  same  you  had  a  fever 
that  day!" 

Anna  shook  her  head.  "I  had  a  secret  too,  Eben,  that  Mrs.  Twigg  knew, 
and  Henry  guessed,  but  never  you  nor  Father.  'Twas  no  fever  I  was  bedded 
with,  but  my  first  monthly  troubles!  I'd  changed  from  child  to  woman  that 
morning,  and  had  the  cramp  oft  as  many  women  do." 

Ebenezer  pressed  her  hand,  uncertain  what  to  say.  It  was  time  to  board 
the  coach:  footmen  and  driver  were  attending  last-minute  details. 


[  132  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Marry,  'twill  be  a  long  time  ere  I  see  you  again,"  he  said  "Belike 
you'll  be  a  stout  matron  with  half-a-dozen  children!*' 

"Nay,  not  I,"  Anna  said.  "  Twill  be  Mrs.  Twigg's  lot  for  me,  when  she 
dies:  an  old  maid  housekeeper/* 

Ebenezer  scoffed.  "Thou'rt  a  catch  for  the  best  of  men!  Could  I  find 
your  equal  I'd  be  neither  virgin  nor  bachelor  for  long/'  He  kissed  her  good- 
bye, forwarded  his  respects  to  his  father,  and  made  to  board  the  carriage, 

"Stay!"  Anna  said  impulsively. 

Ebenezer  hesitated,  uncertain  of  her  meaning.  Anna  slipped  from  her 
finger  a  silver  seal  ring,  well  known  to  the  poet  because  it  was  their  only 
memento  of  their  mother,  whom  they  had  never  seen;  Andrew  had  bought 
it  during  his  brief  courtship  and  had  presented  it  to  Anna  some  years  past. 
Equally  spaced  around  the  seal  were  the  letters  A  N  N  E  B,  for  Anne  Bow- 
yer,  his  fiancee,  and  in  the  center,  overlapped  and  joined  by  a  single  cross- 
bar, was  a  brace  of  beflourished  A's  signifying  the  connection  of  Anne  and 
Andrew.  The  complete  seal  looked  like  this: 


"Prithee  take  this  ring,"  Anna  entreated,  and  looked  at  it  musingly.  M  Tis 
—'tis  my  wont  to  alter  its  significance  somewhat  ...  but  no  matter,  Here, 
let  me  put  it  on  you."  She  caught  up  his  left  hand  and  slipped  the  ring  onto 
his  little  finger.  "Pledge  me .  .  ."  she  began,  but  did  not  finish. 

Ebenezer  laughed,  and  to  terminate  the  uncomfortable  situation  pledged 
that  inasmuch  as  her  share  of  Maiden  was  a  large  part  of  he?  dowry,  he 
would  make  it  flourish. 

It  was  time  to  leave.  He  kissed  her  again  and  boarded  the  carriage,  taking 
the  seat  from  which  he  could  wave  to  her.  At  the  last  minute  the  wigless 
fellow,  Peter  Sayer,  boarded  the  coach  and  took  the  opposite  scat.  A  foot- 
man closed  the  door  and  sprang  up  to  his  post— apparently  there  were  to 
be  no  other  passengers.  The  driver  whipped  up  the  hones.  Ebencxcr  waved 
to  the  forlorn  figure  of  his  twin  at  the  posthousc  door,  and  the  carriage 
pulled  away. 

"Tis  no  light  matter,  to  leave  a  woman  ye  love,"  Sayer  ofeitd.  "Is't 

thy  wife,  perhaps,  or  a  sweetheart?" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  1J3  ] 

"Neither,"  sighed  Ebenezer.  "  Tis  my  twin  sister,  that  I  shan't  see  again 
till  Heav'n  knows  when."  He  turned  to  face  his  companion.  "Thou'rt  my 
savior  from  Ben  Bragg's,  I  believe— Mr.  Sayer?" 

Sayer's  face  showed  some  alarm.  ''Ah,  ye  know  me?" 

"Only  by  name,  from  Ben  Bragg."  He  extended  his  hand.  "I  am  Ebene- 
zer Cooke,  bound  for  Maryland/' 

Sayer  shook  hands  warily. 

"Is  Plymouth  your  home,  Mr.  Sayer?" 

The  man  searched  Ebenezer's  face.  "Do  ye  really  not  know  Colonel 
Peter  Sayer?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  no."  Ebenezer  smiled  uncertainly.  "I'm  honored  by  your  com- 
pany, sir." 

"Of  Talbot  County  in  Maryland?" 

"Maryland!  I'faith,  what  an  odd  chance!" 

"Not  so  odd,"  Sayer  said,  "since  the  Smoker's  Fleet  sails  on  the  first. 
Anyone  bound  for  Plymouth  these  days  is  likely  bound  for  the  plantations." 

"Well,  'twill  be  a  pleasant  journey.  Is  Talbot  County  near  to  Dorchester?" 

"Really,  sir,  thou'rt  twitting  me!"  Sayer  cried, 

"Nay,  I  swear't;  I  know  naught  of  Maryland.  'Tis  my  first  visit  since  the 
age  of  four." 

Sayer  still  looked  skeptical.  "My  dear  fellow,  you  and  I  are  neighbors, 
with  only  the  Great  Choptank  between  us." 

"Marry,  what  a  wondrous  small  world!  You  must  pay  me  a  call  sometime, 
sir:  I'll  be  managing  our  place  on  Cooke's  Point." 

"And  writing  a  deal  of  verse,  did  I  hear  Mr.  Bragg  aright." 

Ebenezer  blushed*  "Aye,  I  mean  to  turn  a  line  or  two  if  I  can." 

"Nay,  put  by  your  modesty,  Master  Laureatel  Bragg  told  me  of  the  honor 
Lord  Baltimore  did  ye." 

"Ah  well,  as  for  that,  'tis  likely  he  got  it  wrong.  My  commission  is  to  write 
a  panegyric  on  Maryland,  but  I'll  not  be  laureate  in  fact  till  the  day  Balti- 
more hath  the  Province  for  his  own  again." 

"Which  day/'  Sayer  said,  "you  and  your  Jacobite  friends  yearn  for,  I 
presume?" 

"Stay,  now!"  Ebenezer  said,  alarmed.  "I  am  as  loyal  as  you." 

Sayer  smiled  for  an  instant  but  said  in  a  serious  tone,  "Yet  ye  wish  King 
William  to  lose  his  province  to  a  Papist?" 

"I  am  a  poet/'  Ebenezer  declared,  almost  adding  and  a  virgin  from  habit; 
4tl  know  naught  of  Jacobites  and  Papists,  and  care  less." 


[  134]  TH*  SOT-WEED  FACTO* 

"Nor  know  ye  aught  of  Maryland  it  seems,"  Sayer  added*  "How  well  do 
ye  know  your  patron?" 

"Not  at  all,  save  that  he  is  a  great  and  generous  man.  I've  conversed 
with  him  but  once,  but  the  history  of  his  province  persuades  me  he  was 
done  a  pitiful  injustice.  Ffaith,  the  scoundrels  that  have  fleeced  and  slan- 
dered him!  I  am  confident  King  William  knows  not  the  whole  truth/* 

"But  you  do?" 

"I  don't  say  that.  Still  and  all,  a  villain  is  a  villain!  This  fellow  Clatbome, 
that  I  heard  of,  and  Ingle,  and  John  Coode^  that  led  the  latest  insurrec- 
tion  " 

"Did  he  not  strike  a  great  blow  for  the  faith,  against  the  Papists?"  Sayer 
demanded. 

Ebenezer  began  to  grow  uncomfortable,  "I  know  not  where  your 
sympathies  lie,  Colonel  Sayer;  belike  thou'rt  a  colonel  in  Coode's  militia 
and  will  clap  me  in  prison  the  day  we  step  ashore  in  Maryland " 

"Then  were't  not  the  part  of  prudence  to  watch  thy  speech?  Mind,  1 
don't  say  I  am  a  friend  of  Coode's,  but  for  all  ye  know  I  may  be," 

"Aye,  'twere  indeed  the  part  of  prudence,"  Ebeneser  said,  a  trifle  fright- 
ened. "You  may  say  'tis  not  always  prudent  to  be  just,  and  I  'tis  not  always 
just  to  be  prudent.  I  am  no  Roman  Catholic,  sirf  nor  antipapist  either,  and 
I  wonder  whether  'tis  a  matter  'twist  Protestants  and  Papists  in  Maryland 
or  'twixt  rascals  and  men  of  character,  whatever  their  faith." 

"Such  a  speech  could  get  thee  jailed  there,"  Sayer  smiled. 

"Then  'tis  proof  of  their  injustice,"  Ebenezer  declared,  not  a  little 
anxiously,  "for  Tin  not  on  either  side.  Lord  Baltimore  strikes  me  as  a  man 
of  character,  and  there's  an  end  on't  It  might  be  I'm  mistaken," 

Sayer  laughed*  "Nay,  thou'rt  not  mistaken.  I  was  but  trying  your 
loyalty." 

'To  whom,  prithee?  And  what  is  your  conclusion?** 

"Thou'rt  a  Baltimore  man/' 

"Do  I  go  to  prison  for't?" 

"That  may  be,"  Sayer  smiled,  "but  not  at  my  hands*  I  am  this  vety  mo- 
ment under  arrest  in  Maryland  for  seditious  speech  against  Coode  and  have 
been  since  last  June." 

"Nay!" 

"Aye,  along  with  Charles  Carroll,  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  Edward 
Randolph,  and  half  a  dozen  other  fine  fellows  that  spoke  against  the  black- 
guard. I  am  no  Papist  either,  but  Charles  Calvert  is  an  old  and  dear  friend 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  135  ] 

of  mine.  May  the  day  I  fear  to  speak  up  against  such  poltroons  be  the  last 
day  of  my  life!" 

Ebenezer  hesitated.  "How  am  I  to  know  'tis  not  now  thou'rt  trying  me, 
and  not  before?" 

"Ye  can  never  know/'  Sayer  replied,  "especially  in  Maryland,  where 
friends  may  change  their  colors  like  tree  frogs.  Why,,  do  ye  know,  the  bar- 
rister Bob  Goldsborough  of  Talbot,  my  friend  and  neighbor  for  years, 
deposed  against  me  to  Governor  Copley?  The  last  man  I'd  have  thought  a 
turncoat!" 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head.  "A  man  mil  sell  his  heart  to  save  his  neck.  The 
picture  looks  drear  enough,  f  faith!" 

"Yet  there's  this  to  say  for't,"  Sayer  said,  "that  it  makes  the  choice  a  clean 
one:  ye  must  hold  your  tongue  with  all  save  your  conscience  or  else  speak 
your  mind  and  take  the  consequences— discretion  goes  out  the  window, 
and  so  doth  compromise." 

"Is  this  the  Voice  of  Reason  speaking?"  Ebenezer  asked, 

"Nay,  'tis  the  Voice  of  Action.  Compromise  serves  well  enough  when 
neither  extreme  will  get  ye  what  ye  want:  but  there  are  things  men  must 
not  want.  What  comfort  is  a  whole  skin,  pray,  when  the  soul  is  wounded 
unto  death?  'Twas  I  wrote  Baltimore  his  first  full  account  of  Coode's 
rebellion,  and  rather  than  live  under  his  false  Associators  I  left  my  house 
and  lands  and  came  to  England." 

"How  is  it  thou'rt  returning?  Will  you  not  be  clapped  in  irons?" 

"That  may  be,"  Sayer  said.  "Howbeit,  I  think  not.  Copley's  dead  since 
September,  and  Baltimore  himself  had  a  hand  in  commissioning  Francis 
Nicholson  to  replace  him.  D'ye  know  Nicholson?" 

Ebenezer  admitted  that  he  did  not. 

"Well,  he  hath  his  faults— chiefly  a  great  temper  and  a  passion  for 
authority— but  his  ear's  been  bent  the  right  way,  and  he'll  have  small  use 
for  Coode's  sort.  Ere  he  got  this  post  he  was  with  Edmund  Andros  in  New 
England,  and  'twas  Leisler's  rebellion  in  New  York  that  ran  him  out— the 
very  model  of  Coode's  rebellion  in  Maryland.  Nay,  I  fear  no  harm  from 
Nicholson." 

"Nonetheless,  'tis  a  bold  resolve,"  Ebenezer  ventured. 

Sayer  shrugged.  "Life  is  short;  there's  time  for  naught  but  bold  resolves." 

Ebenezer  started  and  looked  sharply  at  his  companion. 

"What  is't?" 

"Nothing,"  Ebenezer  said.  "Only  a  dear  friend  of  mine  was  wont  to  tell 
me  that,  I've  lost  track  of  him  these  six  or  seven  years." 


[  136  ]  TOE  SOT-WBED  FACTOR 

"Belike  he  made  some  bold  resolve  himself/'  Sayer  suggested,  "though 
'tis  easier  to  recommend  than  do.  Did  ye  heed  his  counsel?" 

Ebenezer  nodded.  "Hence  both  my  voyage  and  my  laureateship,**  he 
said,  and  since  they  had  a  long  ride  before  them  he  told  his  traveling- 
companion  the  story  of  his  failure  at  Cambridge,  his  brief  sojourn  in  Lon- 
don with  Burlingame  and  his  long  one  with  Peter  Paggen,  the  wager  in 
the  winehouse,  and  his  audience  with  Lord  Baltimore,  The  motion  of  the 
carriage  must  have  loosened  his  tongue,  for  he  went  into  considerable  detail. 
When  he  concluded  with  his  solution  to  the  problem  of  choosing  a  note- 
book and  showed  him  Bragg's  ledger,  Sayer  laughed  so  hard  he  had  to  hold 
his  sides. 

"Oh!  Ha!"  he  cried-  "TJurf  for  your  golden  mtanl  Oh,  'sbodflcins! 
Thou'rt  a  credit  to  your  tutor,  I  swear!** 

"  Twas  my  first  act  as  Laureate/'  Ebeneser  smiled,  "I  saw  it  as  a  kind 
of  crisis/' 

"Marry,  and  managed  it  wondrous  well!  So  here  ye  sit:  virgin  and  poet! 
Think  ye  the  'twain  will  dwell  'neath  the  same  roof  and  act  quarrel  with 
each  other  day  and  night?" 

"On  the  contrary,  they  live  not  only  in  harmony  but  in  mutual 
inspiration/' 

"But  what  on  earth  hath  a  virgin  to  sing  of?  What  have  ye  in  your  ledger 
there?" 

"Naught  save  my  name/*  Ebenezer  admitted.  "I  had  minded  to  paste 
my  commission  there,  that  Baltimore  drafted,  but  it  got  packed  in  my  trunk, 
Yet  I've  two  poems  to  copy  in  it  from  memory,  when  I  can.  The  one  I 
spoke  of  already,  that  I  wrote  the  night  of  the  wager;  'tis  on  the  subject  of 
my  innocence." 

At  his  companion's  request  Ebenezer  recited  the  poem, 

"Very  good,"  Sayer  said  when  it  was  done*  "Methinks  it  puts  your  notion 
aptly  enough,  though  I'm  no  critic.  Yet  'tis  a  mystery  to  me,  what  ye'fl 
sing  of  save  your  innocence.  Prithee  recite  me  the  other  piece/* 

"Nay,  'tis  but  a  silly  quatrain  I  wrote  as  a  lad— the  first  I  ever  rhymed 
And  I've  but  three  lines  oft  in  my  memory/" 

"Ah,  a  pity.  The  Laureate's  first  song:  'twould  fetch  a  price  someday,  Til 
wager,  when  thou'rt  famous  the  world  o'er.  Might  ye  heat  me  to  the  three 
ye  have?" 

Ebenezer  hesitated,  "Thou'rt  not  baiting  me?** 

"Nay!"  Sayer  assured  him.  "  Tis  a  mere  natural  curiosity,  is't  not,  to 
wonder  how  flew  the  mighty  eagle  as  a  fledgling?  Do  we  not  admire  old 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Plutarch's  tales  of  young  Alcibiades  flinging  himself  before  the  carter,  or 
Demosthenes  shaving  half  his  head,  or  Caesar  taunting  the  Cilician 
pirates?  And  would  ye  not  yourself  delight  in  hearing  a  childish  line  of 
Shakespeare's,  or  mighty  Homer's?" 

"I  would,  right  enough,"  Ebenezer  admitted.  "But  will  ye  not  judge  the 
man  by  the  child?  Tis  the  present  poem  alone,  methinks,  that  matters,  not 
its  origins,,  and  it  must  stand  or  fall  on's  own  merits,  apart  from  maker  and 
age." 

"No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  Sayer  said,  waving  his  hand  indifferently,  "though 
this  word  merit's  total  mystery  to  me,  What  I  spoke  of  was  interest,  and 
whether  'tis  good  or  bad  in  itself,  certain  your  Hymn  to  Innocence  is  of 
greater  interest  to  one  who  knows  the  history  of  its  author  than  to  one  who 
knows  not  a  bean  of  the  circumstances  that  gave  it  birth." 

"Your  argument  hath  its  merits,"  Ebenezer  allowed,  not  a  little  im- 
pressed to  hear  such  nice  reasoning  from  a  tobacco-planter. 

Sayer  laughed.  "A  fart  for  thy  meritl  My  argument  hath  its  interest, 
peradventure,  to  one  who  knows  the  arguer,  and  the  history  of  such  debates 
since  Plato's  time." 

"Yet  surely  the  Hymn  hath  some  certain  degree  of  merit,  and  hath  nor 
more  nor  less  whether  he  that  reads  it  be  a  Cambridge  don  or  silly  footboy— 
or  for  that  matter,  whether  'tis  read  or  not." 

"Belike  it  doth,"  Sayer  said  with  a  shrug.  "  Tis  very  like  the  schoolmen's 
question,  whether  a  falling  tree  on  a  desert  isle  makes  a  sound  or  no,  inas- 
much as  no  ear  hears  it.  I've  no  opinion  on't  myself,  though  I'll  own  the 
quarrel  hath  some  interest:  'tis  an  ancient  one,  with  many  a  mighty 
implication  to't." 

"This  interest  is  the  base  of  thy  vocabulary/'  Ebenezer  remarked,  "as 
merit  seems  to  be  of  mine." 

"It  at  least  permits  of  conversation,"  Sayer  smiled.  "Prithee,  which  gleans 
more  pleasure  from  thy  Hymn?  The  footboy  who  knows  not  Priam  from 
Good  King  Wenceslas,  or  the  don  who  calls  the  ancients  by  their  nick- 
names? The  salvage  Indian  that  ne'er  heard  tell  of  chastity,  or  the  Christian 
man  who's  learned  to  couple  innocence  with  unpopped  maidenheads?" 

"Marryl"  Ebenezer  exclaimed.  "Your  case  hath  weight,  my  friend,  but 
I  confess  it  repels  me  to  own  the  muse  sings  clearest  to  professors!  'Twas 
not  of  them  I  thought  when  I  wrote  the  piece." 

"Nay,  ye  mistake  me,"  Sayer  said.  "  'Tis  no  mere  matter  of  schooling, 
though  none's  the  worse  for  a  little  education.  Human  experience  is  what 
I  mean:  knowledge  of  the  world,  both  as  stored  in  books  and  learnt  from 


[  138  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

the  hard  text  of  life.  Your  poem's  a  spring  of  water.  Master  Laureate— 
'sheart,  for  that  matter  everything  we  meet  is  a  spring,  is't  not?  That 
the  bigger  the  cup  we  bring  to't,  the  more  we  fetch  away,  and  the  more 
springs  we  drink  from,  the  bigger  grows  our  cup.  If  1  oppose  your  notion 
of  'merit  in  itself/  'tis  that  such  thinking  robs  the  bank  of  human  experi- 
ence, wherein  I  have  a  considerable  deposit.  I  will  not  drink  with  any  man 
who'd  have  me  throw  away  my  cup.  In  short,  sir,  though  I  am  neither  poet 
nor  critic,  nor  e'en  a  common  Artium  Bttccalaureus,  but  only  a  simple  sot- 
weed  planter  that  hath  read  a  book  or  two  in's  time  and  seen  a  bit  o*  the 
wide  world,  yet  I'm  confident  your  poem  means  more  to  me  than  to  you.** 

"What!  That  are  neither  virgin  nor  poet?" 

Sayer  nodded.  "As  for  the  first,  I  have  been  one  in  my  time  and  look  on't 
now  from  the  vantage-point  of  experience,  which  ye  do  not.  For  the  second, 
'tis  but  a  different  view  ye  get  as  author.  Nor  am  I  the  dullest  of  readers:  I 
quite  appreciate  the  wordplays  in  your  first  quatiaia,  for  instance*" 

"Wordplays?  What  wordplays?" 

"Why,  chaste  Penelope,  for  one,'*  Sayer  said-  "What  better  pun  for  a 
wife  plagued  twenty  years  by  suitors?  Twas  a  clever  choice!" 

"Thank  you,"  Ebenezer  murmured, 

"And  Andromache's  bouncing  boy,"  Sayer  went  on,  "that  was  pitched 
from  the  walls  of  Ilium " 

"Nay,  'tis  grotesque!"  Ebenezer  protested.  "I  meant  no  such  thingl** 

"Not  so  grotesque,  It  hath  the  salt  of  Shakespeare," 
^  "Do  you  think  so?"  Ebenezer  xeconsidercd  the  phrase  in  his  mind. 
"Haply  it  doth  at  that  Nonetheless  you  read  more  out  than  I  put  in/* 

"  'Tis  but  to  admit/*  Sayer  said,  "I  read  mom  out  than  you  read  out, 
which  was  my  claim.  Your  poem  means  more  to  me/* 

"I'faith,  I've  not  the  means  to  refute  you!"  Ebenezer  declared.  "If 
thou'rt  a  true  sample  of  my  fellow  planters,  sir,  then  Maryland  must  be  the 
muse's  playground,  and  a  paradise  for  poets!  Thou'rt  indeed  the  very  voice 
and  breath  of  Reason,  and  I'm  honored  to  be  your  neighbor.  My  cup 
runneth  over." 

Sayer  smiled.  "Belike  it  wants  enlarging?" 

"Tis  larger  now  than  when  I  left  London,  Thou'rt  no  mean  teacher,** 

"For  fee,  then,  if  I'm  thy  tutor,  ye  may  pay  me  out  in  verse, *  Sayer 
replied.  "The  three  lines  that  occasioned  our  debate." 

"As  you  wish,"  Ebenezer  laughed,  "though  Heav'n  only  knows  what 
you'll  find  in  'em!  Twas  once  in  a  Pall  Mall  tavern,  after  my  firat  glass  of 
Malaga,  I  composed  them,  when  all  the  world  looked  queer  and  alien/"  He 
cleared  his  throat: 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Figures,  so  strange,  no  GOD  design' d 
To  be  a  Part  of  Human-kind: 
But  wanton  Nature.  .  .  . 

In  truth,  'tis  but  two  and  a  half;  I  know  not  whither  it  went  from  there,  but 
the  message  of  the  whole  was  simply  that  we  folk  were  too  absurd  to  do 
credit  to  a  Sublime  Intelligence.  No  puns  or  wordplays,  that  I  know  of." 

"  Tis  a  passing  cynical  opinion  for  a  boy/'  Sayer  said. 

"Twas  just  the  way  I  saw  things  in  my  cups.  Marry,  that  last  line 
teases  my  memory!" 

Sayer  stroked  his  beard  and  squinted  out  the  window.  A  dusty  country 
lad  of  twelve  or  thirteen  years,  wandering  idly  down  the  road,  stepped  aside 
and  waved  at  them  as  they  passed. 

"Figures,  so  strange,  no  GOD  designed 
To  be  a  Part  of  Human-kind;' 

Sayer  recited,  and  turned  to  smile  mischievously  at  Ebenezer: 

"Butm 
Mould 

Do  I  have't  right,  Eben?" 


"But  wanton  Nature,  void  of  Rest, 
Moulded  the  brittle  Clay  in  Jest. 


3:    THE  LAUREATE  LEARNS  THE  TRUE  IDENTITY  OF 
COLONEL  PETER  SAYER 


"NAY,  I'GOD!"  EBENEZER  BLINKED,  AND  SHOOK  HIS  HEAD,  AND  CRANED 
forward  as  if  seeking  a  message  on  his  companion's  face. 
"Yes,  'tis  I.  Shame  on  you,  that  you  failed  to  see't,  or  Anna  either." 
"But  'sheart,  Henry,  thou'rt  so  altered  I've  still  to  see't!  Wigless, 

bearded " 

"A  man  changes  in  seven  years,"  Burlingame  smiled.  "I'm  forty  now, 
Eben." 

Ebenezer  laughed  distractedly  and  kept' shaking  his  head.  "E'en  the  eyes!" 
he  said.  "And  thy  way  of  speaking!  Thy  voice  itself  is  different,  and  thy 
manner!  Are  you  Sayer  feigning  Burlingame,  or  Burlingame  disguised  as 
Sayer?" 

"  'Tis  no  disguise,  as  any  that  know  the  real  Sayer  can  testify." 
"Yet  I  knew  the  real  Henry  Burlingame,"  Ebenezer  said,  "and  were't 


[  140]  THE  SOT-WEED  PACTOfc 

not  that  you  knew  my  quatrain  I  could  not  say  thou'rt  he!  I  told  the  poem 
to  none  save  Henry,  and  that  but  once,  fifteen  years  past.0 

"As  I  was  fetching  thee  home  from  St.  James's  Park,"  Henry  added 
"Twas  past  midnight,  and  the  Malaga  had  oiled  thy  tongue.  Yet  you  were 
asleep  ere  we  reached  St  Giles,  with  your  head  on  my  shoulder,  were  you 
not?" 

"Marry,  so  I  was!  I  had  forgot."  Ebenezer  reached  across  the  carriage  and 
gripped  Burlingame's  ami.  "Ah  God,  to  think  I've  found  you.  Henry!  I'd 
given  you  up  for  lost!" 

"Then  you  do  believe  'tis  I?" 

"Forgive  me  my  doubt;  I've  ne'er  known  a  man  to  change  so,  nor  had  ! 
thought  it  possible/' 

Burlingame  raised  a  tutorial  finger.  'The  world  can  alter  a  man  entirely, 
Eben,  or  he  can  alter  himself,  down  to  his  very  essence.  Did  you  not  by 
your  own  testimony  resolve,  not  that  you  wti*,  but  that  you'd  be  virgin  and 
poet  from  that  moment  hence?  Nay,  a  man  must  alter  willy-nilly  in's  Sight 
to  the  grave,  he  is  a  river  running  seawards,  that  is  ne'er  the  same  from 
hour  to  hour.  What  is  there  in  the  Maryland  Laureate  of  the  boy  I  fetched 
from  Magdalene  College?" 

"The  less  the  better!"  Ebenezer  replied.  "Yet  I  am  still  Eben  Cooke, 
though  haply  not  the  same  Eben  Cooke,  as  the  Thames  is  Thames  however 
swift  she  flows/' 

"Is't  not  the  name  alone  remains?  And  was't  Tfatmt*  from  the  day  of 
creation?" 

"Many,  Henry,  you  were  ever  one  for  posing  riddles!  Is't  the  form,  then, 
makes  the  man,  as  the  banks  make  the  river,  whate'er  the  name  and  con- 
tent? Nay,  I  see  already  the  objection,  that  form  is  not  eternal.  The  man 
grows  stout  or  hunchbacked  with  the  years,  and  running  water  cub  and 
shapes  the  banks." 

Burlingpme  nodded.  "  Tis  but  a  change  too  slow  for  men  to  mark,  save 
in  retrospect  The  crabbed  old  man  recalls  his  spring,  and  records  tell- 
er rocks  to  him  who  knows  their  language— where  the  river  tan  of  old, 
that  now  runs  such-a-way,  'Tis  but  a  grossness  of  perception,  is't  not, 
that  lets  us  speak  of  Thames  and  Tigris,  or  even  Franc*  and  Engfand, 
but  especially  me  and  thee,  as  though  what  went  by  those  names  or  others 
in  time  past  hath  some  connection  with  the  present  object?  I'faith,  for 
that  matter  how  is't  we  speak  of  objects  if  not  that  our  coarse  vision  fails 
to  note  their  change?  The  world's  indeed  a  flux,  as  Heraclitus  declared; 
the  very  universe  is  naught  but  change  and  motion." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  I  141  J 

Ebenezer  had  attended  this  discourse  with  a  troubled  air,  but  now  he 
brightened.  "Have  you  not  in  staring  o'er  the  Precipice  missed  the  Path?" 
he  asked. 

"I  do  not  grasp  your  figure." 

"How  is't  you  convinced  me  thou'rt  Henry  Burlingame,  when  name  and 
form  alike  were  changed?  How  is't  we  know  of  changes  too  nice  for  our 
eyes  to  see?"  He  laughed,  pleased  at  his  acuity.  "Nay,  this  very  flux  and 
change  you  make  so  much  of:  how  can  we  speak  of  it  at  all,  be  it  ne'er  so 
swift  or  slow,  were't  not  that  we  remember  how  things  were  before?  Thy 
memory  served  as  thy  credentials,  did  it  not?  Tis  the  house  of  Identity, 
the  Soul's  dwelling  place!  Thy  memory,  my  memory,  the  memory  of  the 
race:  'tis  the  constant  from  which  we  measure  change;  the  sun.  Without  it, 
all  were  Chaos  right  enough," 

"In  sum,  then,  thou'rt  thy  memory?" 

"Aye,"  Ebenezer  agreed.  "Or  better,  I  know  not  what  I  am,  but  I  know 
that  I  am,  and  have  been,  because  of  memory.  Tis  the  thread  that  runs 
through  all  the  beads  to  make  a  necklace;  or  like  Ariadne's  thread,  that 
she  gave  to  thankless  Theseus,  it  marks  my  path  through  the  labyrinth  of 
Life,  connects  me  with  my  starting  place." 

Burlingame  smiled,  and  Ebenezer  observed  that  his  teeth,  which  had 
used  to  be  white,  were  yellow  and  carious— at  least  two  were  missing  alto- 
gether. 

"You  make  a  great  thing  of  this  memory,  Eben." 

"I'll  own  I'd  not  reflected  ere  now  on  its  importance.  Tis  food  for  a 
sonnet,  or  two,  don't  you  think?" 

Burlingame  only  shrugged. 

"Come,  Henry;  sure  thou'rt  not  piqued  that  I  have  skirted  thy  pit!" 

"Would  God  you  had/'  Burlingame  said.  "But  I  fear  me  thou'rt  seduced 
by  metaphors,  as  was  Descartes  of  old." 

"How  is  that,  pray?  Can  you  refute  me?" 

"What  more  refutation  need  I  make  of  this  god  Memory9  than  that 
thou'rt  forgetting  something?" 

"What—"  Ebenezer  stopped  and  blushed  as  he  realized  the  implication 
of  what  his  friend  had  said. 

"You  did  not  recall  sleeping  on  my  shoulder  on  the  way  home  from 
Pall  Mall/'  Burlingame  reminded  him.  "This  demonstrates  the  first  weak- 
ness of  your  soul-saving  thread,  which  is,  that  it  hath  breaks  in  it.  There 
are  three  others/' 

"Ah,  many/'  Ebenezer  sighed.  "If  that  is  so,  I  fear  for  my  argument." 


[  142  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"You  said  'twas  Malaga  we  drank  that  night." 

"Aye,  I've  a  clear  memory  oft" 

"And  I  that  'twas  Madeira." 

Ebenezer  laughed,  "As  for  that,  I'd  trust  my  memory  over  yours,  inas- 
much as  'twas  my  first  wine,  and  I'd  not  likely  forget  the  name  oft" 

"True  enough/'  Burlingame  agreed,  "if  you  got  it  aright  in  the  first  place. 
But  I  too  marked  it  well  as  your  first  glass  and  well  knew  Malaga  from 
Madeira,  whereas  to  you  the  names  were  new  and  meaningless*  and  thus 
lightly  confused." 

"That  may  be,  but  I  am  certain  'twas  Malaga  nonetheless." 

"No  matter,"  Burlingame  declared.  "The  fact  of  the  matter  is,  where 
memories  disagree  there's  oft  no  means  to  settle  the  dispute,  and  that's 
the  second  weakness.  The  third  is,  that  in  large  measure  we  recall  whatever 
we  wish,  and  forget  the  rest.  'Twas  not  until  you  summoned  up  this  quat- 
rain, for  example,  that  I  recalled  having  slipped  upstairs  to  a  whore  the 
while  you  were  composing  it.  My  shame  at  leaving  you  thus  alone,  for  one 
thing,  forced  it  soon  out  of  mind." 

"Ffaith,  my  polestar  leads  me  on  the  rocks!"  Ebenesser  lamented.  "What 
is  the  fourth  objection  to't?" 

"That  e'en  those  things  it  holds,  it  tends  to  color,"  Burlingame  replied, 
Tis  as  if  Theseus  at  every  turn  rolled  up  the  thread  and  laid  it  out  again 
in  a  prettier  pattern," 

"I  fear  me  thy  objections  are  fatal,"  Ebenezer  said.  'They  are  like  the 
four  black  crows  that  ate  up  Gretel's  peas,  wherewith  she'd  marked  her 
trail  into  the  forest." 

"Nay,  these  are  but  weaknesses,  not  mortal  wounds,"  said  Burlingame. 
"They  don't  obliterate  the  path  but  only  obfuscate  it,  so  that  hy  as  we 
might  we  never  can  be  certain  of  t"  He  smiled*  "Howbeit,  there  is  yet  a 
fifth,  that  by's  own  self  could  do  the  job-" 

"  'Slife,  you'd  as  well  uncage  the  rascal  and  let  us  see  him  plainly." 

"My  memory  served  as  my  credentials,  as  you  told  me,"  Burlingame  said. 
"Blurred,  imperfect  as  it  is  from  careless  use,  and  thine  as  well  the  twain 
agreed  on  points  enough  to  satisfy  you  I  am  Burlingame,  though  1  could 
not  prove  it  any  other  way.  But  suppose  the  thread  gets  lost  completely, 
as't  sometimes  doth.  Suppose  I'd  had  no  tecolleetion  of  tny  past  at  all?" 

"Then  you'd  have  been  Colonel  Sayer  for  all  of  me,"  Ebenezer  replied. 
"Or  if  haply  you'd  declared  yourself  my  Henry,  but  knew  no  more,  I'd 
ne'er  have  credited  your  tale.  But  'tis  a  rare  occurrence,  is't  not,  this  total 
loss  of  memory,  and  rarer  yet  where  no  other  pjoof  exists  of  one's  identity?" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  143  ] 

"No  doubt  But  suppose  again  I  looked  like  the  man  who  fetched  you  to 
London,  and  spoke  and  dressed  like  him,  and  e'en  was  called  Burlingame 
by  Trent  and  Merriweather,  and  fat  Ben  Oliver.  Moreover,  suppose  I  had 
before  witnesses  signed  the  name  as  Burlingame  was  wont  to  sign  it. 
Then  suppose  one  day  I  swore^I  was  not  Burlingame  at  all,  nor  knew  aught 
of  his  whereabouts,  but  only  a  clever  actor  who  had  got  the  knack  of 
aping  signatures,  and  had  passed  myself  as  Heniy  for  a  lark." 

'Thy  suppositions  dizzy  me!'*  Ebenezer  cried. 

"However  strong  your  convictions,"  Burlingame  went  on,  "you'd  ne'er 
have  proof  that  I  was  he." 

"I  must  own  that's  true,  though  it  pains  me." 

"Now  another  case " 

"Keep  thy  case,  I  beg  you!"  Ebenezer  said.  "I  am  cased  from  head  to 
toe  already." 

"Nay,  'tis  to  the  point.  Suppose  today  I'd  claimed  to  be  Burlingame, 
for  all  my  alteration,  and  composed  a  line  to  fit  your  quatrain— nay,  a 
whole  life  story— which  did  not  match  your  own  recollection;  and  when 
you  questioned  it,  suppose  I'd  challenged  your  own  identity,  and  made 
you  out  to  be  the  clever  impostor.  At  best  you'd  have  no  proof,  would 
you  now?" 

"I  grant  I  would  not,"  Ebenezer  admitted.  "Save  my  own  certainty. 
But  it  strikes  me  the  burden  of  proof  would  rest  with  you,  not  me." 

"In  that  case,  yes.  But  I  said  at  best.  If  I  had  learned  aught  of  your 
past,  however,  the  discrepancies  could  be  charged  to  your  own  poor  posing, 
and  if  further  I  produced  someone  very  like  you  in  appearance,  'tis  very 
possible  the  burden  of  proof  would  be  on  you.  And  if  I  brought  a  few  of 
your  friends  in  on  the  game,  or  even  old  Andrew  and  your  sister,  to  dis- 
claim you,  I'll  wager  even  you  would  doubt  your  authenticity." 

"Mercy,  mercy!"  Ebenezer  cried.  "No  more  of  these  tenuous  hypotheses, 
lest  I  lose  my  wits!  I  am  satisfied  thou'rt  Henry;  I  swear  to  thee  I  am 
Ebenezer,  and  there's  an  end  on't!  Such  casuistical  speculations  lead  only 
to  the  Pit." 

"True  enough,"  Burlingame  said  good-humoredly.  "I  wished  only  to  es- 
tablish that  all  assertions  of  thee  and  me,  e'en  to  oneself,  are  acts  of  faith, 
impossible  to  verify." 

"I  grant  it;  I  grant  it.  Tis  established  like  the "  He  waved  his  hand 

uncertainly.  "Marry,  your  discourse  hath  robbed  me  of  similes:  I  know  of 
naught  immutable  and  sure!" 

"  Tis  the  first  step  on  the  road  to  Heaven,"  Burlingame  smiled. 


t  144  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"That  may  be,"  Ebenezer  said,  "or  haply  'tis  the  road  to  Hell" 

Burlingame  cocked  his  eyebrows.  "  Tis  the  same  road,  or  good  Dante 
is  a  liar.  Thou'rt  quite  content  that  I  am  Burlingame?" 

"Quite,  I  swear't!" 

"And  thou'rt  Ebenezer?" 

"I  never  doubted  it;  and  still  thy  pupil,1  as  this  carriage  ride  hath 
shown." 

"Good.  Another  time  I'll  ask  you  what  me  and  thee  refer  to,  but  not 


now. 


"No,  ffaith,  not  now,  for  I've  a  thousand  things  to  ask  of  you!** 
"And  I  to  tell,"  Burlingame  said.  "But  so  fantastic  a  tale  it  is»  my  first 
concern  is  for  thy  credulity,  and  thus  I  deemed  necessary  all  this  Sophistical 
discourse," 

Not  long  afterwards  the  carriage  stopped  at  Aldeishot,  for  it  was  well 
past  suppertime,  and  the  travelers  had  not  eaten.  Burlingame,  therefore^ 
as  was  his  habit,  postponed  all  further  conversation  on  the  subject  while 
he  and  Ebenezer  dined  on  cold  capon  and  potatoes.  Afterwards,  having 
been  informed  by  their  driver  that  there  would  be  a  two-hour  wait  for  the 
horses  and  driver  which  would  take  them  on  to  Salisbury*  Exeter,  and  Plym- 
outh, they  took  seats  before  the  fire*  at  Burlingame^  suggestion,  with  their 
pipes  and  a  quart  of  Bristol  sherry*  It  had  grown  dark  outside;  a  light  rain 
began  to  fall.  Ebenezer  waited  impatiently  for  his  friend  to  begin,  but 
Burlingame,  jvhen  his  pipe  was  lighted  and  his  glass  filled,  sighed  a  com- 
fortable sigh  and  asked  merely,  "How  fares  your  father  these  days,  Ebea?" 


4:    THE    LAUREATE    HEARS    THE  TALE    OF 
BURLINGAME'S    LATE    ADVENTURES 


"FATHER  BE  DAMNED!"  EBENEZER  CRIED.  *i  KNOW  NOT  WHETHER  HE 
lives  or  dies,  nor  greatly  care  till  I've  heard  your  story!" 

"Yet  you  know  who  he  is,  alive  or  dead,  do  you  not?  And  ia  that  respect, 
if  not  some  others,  who  you  are/' 

'Tray  let  us  dismiss  old  Andrew  for  the  nonce,"  Ebeneser  pleaded,  "as 
he  hath  dismissed  me.  Where  have  you  been,  and  what  done  and  seen? 
Wherefore  the  name  Peter  Sayer,  and  your  wondrous  alteatioas?  Com- 
mence the  tale,  and  a  fig  for  old  Andrew!" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  145  ] 

"How  dismiss  him?"  Burlingame  asked.  "'Twas  he  commenced  my 
story,  what  time  he  dismissed  me." 

"What?  Is't  that  nonsense  over  Anna  you  refer  to?  How  doth  it  bear 
upon  your  tale?" 

"What  towering  wrath!"  Burlingame  said.  "What  murtherous  alarm! 
I'God,  the  hate  he  bore  me— I  am  awed  by't  even  yetl" 

"I've  ne'er  excused  him  for  it,"  Ebenezer  said  shortly. 

"Your  privilege,  as  his  son.  But  I,  Eben,  I  excused  him  on  the  instant; 
forgave  him— nay,  e'en  admired  him  fort.  Had  he  made  to  slay  me— ah, 
well,  but  no  matter," 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head.  "  'Tis  past  my  understanding.  But  say,  must 
I  give  up  hope  of  hearing  your  tale?" 

"Thou'rt  hearing  it,"  Burlingame  declared.  "Tis  the  pier  whereon  the 
entire  history  rests;  the  lute-work  that  ushers  in  the  song." 

"So  be't.  But  I  fear  me  'twill  be  a  tadpole  of  a  history,  whose  head  is 
greater  than  his  body.  You  forgave  him,  then?" 

"More,  I  loved  him  for't,  and  scurried  off  in  shame." 

"Yet  'twas  a  false  and  vicious  charge  he  charged  you!" 

Burlingame  shrugged.  "As  for  that,  'twas  not  his  justice  awed  me,  but 
his  great  concern  for  his  child." 

"A  marvelous  concern  he  bears  us,  right  enough,"  Ebenezer  said.  "He 
will  wreck  us  with  his  concern!  Suppose  he'd  birched  her  bloody,  as  you 
told  me  once  he  threatened:  would  you  not  adore  and  worship  such  con- 
cern?" 

"I  would  kill  him  for't,"  Burlingame  replied,  "but  love  him  none  the  less." 

"Marry,  thou'rt  come  a  wondrous  way  from  London,  where  I  left  you! 
Why  did  you  not  applaud  my  resolution  to  go  home  with  Anna,  seeing 
'twas  pure  filial  solicitude  that  prompted  it?" 

"You  mistake  me,"  Burlingame  said.  "I'd  oppose  it  still,  and  Anna's 
bending  to  his  every  humor.  Were  I  his  son  I'd  be  disowned  ere  now  for 
flying  in  the  face  of  his  concern;  but  what  a  priceless  prize  it  is,  Eben! 
What  a  wealthy  man  I'd  be,  to  throw  away  such  treasure!  The  fellow 
repines  in  bed  for  grief  at  losing  you;  he  dictates  the  course  of  your  life 
to  make  you  worthy  of  your  line!  Who  grieves  for  me,  prithee,  or  cares 
a  fig  be  I  fop  or  philosopher?  Who  sets  me  goals  to  turn  my  back  on,  or 
values  to  thumb  my  nose  at?  In  fine,  sir,  what  business  have  I  in  the 
world,  what  place  to  flee  from,  what  credentials  to  despise?  Had  I  a  home 
I'd  likely  leave  it;  a  family  alive  or  dead  I'd  likely  scorn  it,  and  wander  a 
stranger  in  alien  towns.  But  what  a  burden  and  despair  to  be  a  stranger 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

to  the  world  at  large,  and  have  no  link  with  history!  Tis  as  if  I'd  sprung 
de  novo  like  a  maggot  out  of  meat,  or  dropped  from  the  sky.  Had  I  the 
tongue  of  angels  I  ne'er  could  tell  you  what  a  loneliness  it  is!" 

"I  cannot  fathom  it,"  Ebenezer  declared.  "Is  this  the  man  that  stood  in 
Thames  Street  praising  Heav'n  he  knew  naught  of  his  forebears?" 

"  Twas  a  desperate  speech"— Burlingame  smiled--"like  a  pauper's  dia- 
tribe on  the  sinfulness  of  wealth.  When  the  twain  of  you  had  gone  I  felt 
my  loneliness  as  ne'er  before,  and  thought  long  of  Captain  Salmon  and 
gentle  Melissa  that  raised  me.  Do  you  recall  that  day  in  Cambridge  when 
you  asked  me  how  I  came  to  be  called  Henry  Burlingame  the  Third?" 

"Aye,  and  you  replied  'twas  the  name  you'd  bome  from  birth." 

"I  spent  some  hours  grousing  in  my  chamber,"  Burlingame  said,  "and 
at  length  I  came  to  see  this  pompous  name  of  mine  as  the  most  precious 
thing  I  owned.  Who  bestowed  it  on  me?  Wherefore  Burlingame  Third,  and 
not  just  Burlingame?" 

"'Sheart,  I  see  your  meaning!"  Ebenezer  said.  "Tis  your  name  that 
links  you  with  your  forebears;  thou'rt  not  wholly  ex  nth&o  after  ail!  Tis 
a  kind  of  clue  to  the  riddle!" 

Burlingame  nodded.  "And  did  I  not  profess  to  be  a  scholar?"  He  refilled 
his  glass  with  Bristol  sherry.  "Then  and  there  I  made  myself  a  vow,"  he 
said,  "to  learn  the  name  and  nature  of  my  father,  the  circumstances  of 
my  birth,  and  haply  the  place  and  manner  of  his  death;  nor  would  I  value 
any  business  higher,  but  ransack  the  very  planet  in  my  quest  till  I  had 
found  my  answer  or  died  a-searching.  And  search  I  have— i'fauth!— these 
seven  years.  Tis  the  one  business  of  my  life/' 

''Then  marry,  I  must  hear  the  tale  oft,  that  I've  waited  for  too  long 
already.  Drink  off  your  sherry  and  commence^  nor  will  I  stand  for  inter- 
ruption till  the  tale  be  done." 

"As  you  wish/'  Burlingame  said.  He  drank  the  wine  and  filled  his  pipe 
besides,  and  told  the  following  story: 

"How  should  a  man  discover  the  history  of  his  parentage  when  he  knows 
not  whence  he  came  or  how,  or  even  whether  the  name  he  bears  hath 
any  authenticity?  For  think  not  I  was  blind  to't,  Eben,  that  my  one  hope 
might  be  a  false  one;  what  evidence  had  I  'twas  not  some  jest  or  happen- 
stance, this  name  of  mine,  or  perchance  some  other  guardian's,  that  nursed 
me  up  from  infancy  till  Captain  Salmon  chanced  along?  It  wants  but  pluck 
to  vow  to  build  a  bridge,  yet  pluck  will  never  build  it  I  cast  about  me  for 
a  first  step,  and  betook  myself  at  last  to  Bristol,  where  I  thougjhtt  perchance 
to  find  some  that  knew  at  least  my  Captain  and  recalled  his  orphan  wand 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  147  ] 

—and  privily,  111  own,  I  prayed  to  meet  some  old  and  trusted  friend  of  his, 
or  kin,  that  might  know  the  full  story  of  my  origin.  Twas  not  unthinkable 
he  might  have  told  the  tale,  I  reasoned,  if  not  broadcast  then  at  least  to 
one  or  two,  unless  there  was  some  mighty  sin  about  it." 

Ebenezer  frowned.  "Such  as  what?  The  man  you've  pictured  me  ne'er 
could  stoop  to  kidnaping." 

Burlingame  pursed  his  lips  and  raised  and  let  fall  his  hands.  "He  had  no 
children,  to  my  knowledge,  and  the  yen  for  sons  can  drive  a  man  and 
woman  far.  Moreover,  'twould  be  no  great  matter  to  achieve:  Many's  the 
anchor  that's  dropped  at  dusk  and  weighed  ere  the  sun  comes  up.  Yet 
'twas  not  kidnaping  I  mainly  thought  of,  though  I  would  not  rule  it  out 
— more  likely,  if  he  came  by  me  improperly,  'twas  that  he'd  got  me  on  some 
mistress  in  a  port  of  call." 

"Nay,"  said  Ebenezer.  "I  have  indeed  read  that  the  sailor  is  a  great 
philanderer,  even  at  times  a  bigamist,  by  reason  of  his  occupation,  but 
Captain  Salmon,  as  I  picture  him,  had  neither  the  youth  nor  the  temper  for 
such  folly,  the  less  so  for  that  he  was  no  common  sailor,  but  master  of  a 
vessel.  Twere  as  unlike  such  a  man  to  saddle  himself  with  a  bastard  as 
'twould  be  for  Solomon  to  prattle  nonsense  or  a  Jew  to  strike  fair  bargains." 

Burlingame  smiled.  "Which  is  but  to  say,  'tis  not  out  of  the  question. 
Follow  Horace  if  you  will  when  making  verse— /fefez'Gs  Ino,  perftdus  Ixion, 
and  the  rest— but  think  not  actual  folk  are  e'er  so  simple.  Many's  the  Jew 
hath  lost  his  shirt,  and  saint  that  hath  in  private  leaped  his  houseboy.  A 
covetous  man  may  be  generous  on  occasion,  and  Even  an  emmet  may  seek 
revenge.  Again,  though  'twere  unlike  Captain  Salmon  to  sow  wild  oats, 
'twere  not  at  all  unlike  him,  if  his  own  plot  would  not  bear,  to  seek  a-pur- 
pose  a  field  more  fruitful.  Melissa  may  even  have  pressed  him  to." 

"A  wife  incite  her  husband  to  be  unfaithful?" 

"'Twere  no  breach  of  faith,  methinks,  in  such  a  case.  Howbeit,  no 
matter:  in  the  first  place  I  thought  it  most  likely  he  came  by  me  in  no 
such  sinister  fashion,  but  simply  took  him  in  an  orphan  babe  as  any  man 
might  who  hath  a  Christian  heart;  in  the  second,  I  cared  not  a  straw  for 
the  manner  of  my  getting  so  I  could  but  discover  it  and  my  getter." 

"And  did  you?" 

Burlingame  shook  his  head.  "I  found  three  or  four  old  people  that  had 
known  Salmon  and  remembered  his  ungrateful  charge:  one  told  me,  when 
I  revealed  my  name^  'twas  grief  at  my  loss  killed  the  Captain,  and  grief 
o'er  his  killed  Melissa.  I  yearn  to  credit  that  story,  for  fear  my  conscience 
might  accuse  me  else  of  fleeing  such  an  awful  responsibility;  yet  there  is 


[  148  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

a  temper  wont  to  twist  the  past  into  a  theater-piece,  mistake  the  reasonable 
for  the  historical,  and  sit  like  Rhadamanthus  in  everlasting  judgment.  This 
man,  I  tell  you  reluctantly,  was  of  that  temper.  In  any  case  none  knew 
aught  of  my  origin  save  that  Captain  Salmon  had  fetched  me  home  from 
somewhere,  on  his  vessel.  I  asked  then,  who  was  the  Captain's  closet  friend, 
and  who  Melissa's?  And  each  of  the  men  among  them  claimed  to  be  the 
former,  and  each  of  the  women  the  latter.  Finally  I  asked  whether  any 
remembered  who  was  the  mate  on  Salmon's  ship  in  those  days;  but  Bristol 
is  a  busy  port,  where  men  change  ships  from  voyage  to  voyage,  and  'tis 
unlikely  they'd  have  known  were't  but  one  year  before  instead  of  thirty. 
Yet  as  often  happens,  in  asking  someone  else,  I  hit  on  the  answer  myself, 
or  if  not  the  answer  at  least  a  fresh  hope:  a  man  called  Richard  Hill  had 
been  first  mate  on  all  five  voyages  I  had  made  with  Captain  Salmon,  and 
'twas  my  impression,  more  from  their  manner  with  each  other  than  from 
any  plain  statement,  that  he  and  the  Captain  were  shipmates  of  some 
years'  standing.  'Twas  not  impossible  he'd  been  mate  on  that  voyage  ten 
years  before,  though  'twas  a  long  chance;  and  if  indeed  he'd  been,  why, 
'twas  certain  he'd  know  more  than  I  about  the  matter,  for  'tis  hard  to  keep 
such  business  from  a  first  mate  under  any  conditions,  and  perhaps  unwise  if 
he's  a  trusted  friend  to  boot.  Of  course,  for  aught  I  knew,  this  Hill  might 
be  long  dead,  or  finding  him  as  hard  a  matter  as  finding  my  father " 

"I  grant  you,  I  grant  you!"  Ebenezer  broke  in.  "Prithee  trust  me  to 
appreciate  your  obstacles  without  enumeration,  save  such  as  advance  the 
story,  and  tell  me  quickly  whether  you  overcame  them.  Did  you  find  this 
Hill  fellow?  And  had  he  aught  to  tell  you?" 

"You  must  attend  the  haw  oft/'  Burlingame  said;  "else  thou'rt  as  much 
a  Boeotian  as  he  that  reads  the  Iliad  no  farther  than  the  invocation,  where 
the  end  oft  all  is  plainly  told.  As't  happened,  none  of  my  informants  re- 
called for  certain  this  Richard  Hill  I  spoke  of,  but  two  of  them,  who  still 
were  wont  to  stroll  about  the  wharves,  declared  there  was  a  Richard  Hill 
in  the  tobacco  fleet.  Yet,  though  he  sometimes  called  at  Bristol,  they  told 
me  he  was  no  Bristolman,  nor  even  an  Englishman,  but  either  a  Marylander 
or  a  Virginian;  nor  was  he  a  mate,  but  captain  of  his  own  vessel. 

"This  I  took  as  good  news  rather  than  bad.  When  I  had  satisfied  myself 
that  neither  Captain  Hill  nor  farther  news  of  him  was  to  be  found  in 
Bristol  at  that  time,  I  hastened  back  to  London," 

"Not  to  the  plantations?"  Ebenezer  asked,  feigning  disappointment 
"Tis  unlike  you,  Henry!" 

"Nay,  I  was  ready  enough  to  sail  for  America,"  Burlingame  replied,  *1>ut: 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  149  ] 

'Tzs  -wiser  to  ask  at  the  carriage-house  than  to  chase  off  down  the  road. 
London  is  the  very  liver  and  lights  of  the  sot-weed  trade;  it  took  but  half 
a  day  there  to  learn  that  Captain  Hill  was  in  fact  a  Marylander,  from 
Anne  Arundel  County,  and  master  of  the  ship  Hope,  which  lay  at  that 
very  moment  in  the  Thames  with  other  'vessels  of  the  fleet,  discharging 
her  cargo.  I  fairly  ran  down  to  the  wharf  where  she  lay  and  with  some 
difficulty  (for  I  had  no  money)  contrived  an  interview  with  Captain 
Hill.  But  I  had  no  need  to  ask  my  great  question,  for  immediately 
upon  hearing  my  name  he  enquired  whether  I  was  Avery  Salmon's  boy, 
that  had  jumped  ship  in  Liverpool.  I  declared  I  was,  and  when  we  had 
done  shaking  our  heads  at  my  youthful  folly  and  singing  the  praises  of 
Captain  Salmon  (who,  however,  he  told  me  had  died  of  tumors  and  not 
grief),  told  him  the  purpose  of  my  visit  and  besought  him  to  give  me  any 
information  he  migjht  have  on  that  head. 

"  'Why/  he  declared,  'I  was  not  Avery's  mate  in  those  days,  Henry.  I 
know  what  there  is  to  know  oft,  and  no  more/ 

"  'And  prithee  what  is  that?' 

"  'Naught  but  what  ye  know  already/  said  he:  'that  ye  was  fished  like 
a  jimmy-crab  from  the  waves  of  the  Chesapeake/  " 

"Stay!"  Ebenezer  cried.  "I've  ne'er  heard  you  speak  oft,  Henry!" 

"  'Twas  as  new  to  me  then  as  to  you  now/'  Burlingame  said.  "I  expressed 
your  surprise  tenfold  and  assaulted  Captain  Hill  with  questions.  When  at 
length  I  convinced  him  I  was  a  perfect  stranger  to  the  matter,,  he  explained 
'twas  in  the  early  part  of  1654  or  *55>  *°  the  best  of  his  memory,  during 
a  ran  up  the  Chesapeake  from  Piscataway  to  Kent  Island,  Captain  Salmon's 
vessel  had  come  upon  an  empty  canoe  driven  before  the  wind.  The  sailors 
guessed  'twas  blown  from  some  salvage  Indian  and  would  have  taken  no 
further  note  of  it,  save  that  on  passing  closer  they  heard  strange  cries  issuing 
from  it.  Word  was  sent  to  Captain  Salmon,  who  ordered  the  vessel  hove  to 
and  sent  a  boat  over  to  investigate." 

"Many,  Henry!"  Ebenezer  said  breathlessly.  "Was't  you?" 

"Aye,  a  lad  of  two  or  three  months,  stark  naked  and  like  to  perish  of 
the  cold.  My  hands  and  feet  were  bound  with  rawhide,  and  on  my 
skin,  like  a  sailor's  tattoo,  was  writ  the  name  Henry  Burlingame  III,  in 
small  red  letters.  They  fetched  me  aboard " 

"Wait,  I  pray  you!  I  must  assimilate  these  wonders,,  that  you  drop  as 
light  as  goose-dung!  Naked  and  tattooed,  i'faithl  Is't  still  to  be  seen?" 

"Nay,  'tis  long  since  faded." 

"But  how  came  you  to  be  there?  Surely  'twas  some  villainy!" 


[150]  THE  SOX-WEED  FACTOR 

"No  man  knows,"  Burlingame  said.  "The  canoe  and  the  thongs  where- 
with I  was  bound  bespoke  salvagery,  yet  there's  not  a  salvage  in  the  country 
knows  his  letters,  to  my  knowledge,  and  my  skin  and  scalp  were  whole." 

"Agad!"  Ebenezer  cried.  "What  creature  is't  could  bear  such  malice  to 
a  silly  babe,  that  not  content  to  do  him  to  death,  must  do't  in  such  a  hard 
and  lingering  fashion?" 

"  Tis  a  mystery  to  this  day.  In  any  case,  Captain  Salmon  had  me  clapped 
under  coverlets  in  his  own  cabin,  where  for  ten  days  and  nights  I  hung 
'twixt  here  and  hereafter,  and  fed  me  on  fresh  goat's  milk.  At  length  my 
fever  abated  and  my  health  returned;  Captain  Salmon  took  a  fancy  to  me 
and  resolved  ere  his  ship  returned  to  Bristol  I  would  be  his  son.  More  than 
this  my  Captain  Hill  knew  naught,  and  though  'twas  volumes  more  than 
erst  Fd  known,  yet  so  far  from  laying  my  curiosity,  it  but  pricked  him  up 
the  more,  I  offered  then  and  there  to  join  the  Hope's  crew  for  the  voyage 
back  to  Maryland,  where  I  meant  to  turn  the  very  marshes  inside  out  for 
clues." 

"Twas  a  desperate  resolve,  was't  not?**  Ebenezer  smiled*  "The  more 
since  you  knew  not  whence  the  canoe  had  blown,  or  where  the  ship  o'er- 
took  it." 

"It  was  indeed,"  Burlingame  agreed,  "though  a  desperate  resolve  may 
sometimes  meet  success*  In  any  case,  'twas  that  or  give  over  my  quest.  I 
had  a  fortnight's  time  ere  the  Hope  sailed,  and  like  a  proper  scholar  I  ran- 
sacked the  records  of  the  Customs-house,  My  end  this  time  was  to  search 
out  all  the  Burlingames  in  Maryland,  for  once  in  the  Province  I  meant 
to  make  my  way  to  each,  by  fair  means  or  foul,  and  dig  for  what  I  sought 
Who  could  say  but  that  one  among  their  number  mi^ht  have  sired  me?" 

"Well,"  said  Ebenezer,  "and  did  you  find  any?" 

Burlingame  shook  his  head*  'To  the  best  of  my  knowledge  not  a  man 
or  woman  of  that  name  lives  now  in  the  Province,,  or  hath  ever  rince  its 
founding.  Next  I  resolved  to  search  the  records  of  all  the  other  provinces 
in  like  manner,  working  north  and  south  in  turn  from  Maryland.  The 
task  was  rendered  harder  by  the  many  changes  in  grants  and  charters  over 
the  years,  and  farther  by  the  fear  of  civil  war,  which  ever  works  a  wondrous 
ruin  to  the  custom  clerk's  faith  in  his  fellow  man.  I  started  on  Virginia, 
working  back  from  the  current  year,  but  ere  I'd  got  past  Cromwell's  time 
my  fortnight  was  run,  and  off  I  sailed  to  Maryland/'  Burlingame  smiled 
and  tapped  ashes  from  his  pipe,  "Had  the  wind  held  bad  another  fortnight, 
Fd  have  found  somewhat  to  fan  my  hopes  enormously.  As  'twas,  I  waited 
near  two  years  to  find  it" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [151] 

was  that?  News  of  your  father?" 

"Nay,  Eben— of  that  gentleman  I  know  no  more  today  than  I  knew  then, 
nor  of  my  mother  or  myself/' 

"Ah,  'twere  better  you'd  not  told  me  that,"  Ebenezer  declared,  clucking 
his  tongue,  "for  it  spoils  the  story.  What  man  could  pleasure  in  a  quest, 
or  the  tale  of  one,  that  he  knew  ere  he  launched  it  was  in  vain?" 

"Would  you  have  me  forego  the  rest?"  Burlingame  asked.  "The  news 
was  merely  of  my  grandfather,  or  so  I  believe— I've  come  to  know  some- 
what of  that  fellow,  at  least." 

"Ah,  thou'rt  teasing  me,  then!" 

Burlingame  nodded  and  stood  up.  "I  know  no  more  of  my  father  than 
before,  but  'tis  not  to  say  I'm  no  nearer  knowing.  No  indeed.  Howbeit, 
the  tale  shall  have  to  keep." 

"What!  Thou'rt  not  affronted,  Henry?" 

"Nay,  nay,"  Burlingame  replied.  "But  I  hear  our  driver  harnessing  the 
team  in  the  yard.  Stretch  your  legs  a  bit,  lad,  and  relieve  thyself  ere  we 

go-" 

"But  surely  you'll  take  up  the  tale  again?"  Ebenezer  pleaded. 

Burlingame  shrugged,  "  'Twere  better  you  slept  if  you  can.  If  not,  why 
then  'tis  good  to  have  a  tale  to  wait  the  dawn  with." 

At  that  moment  the  new  driver  burst  in,  cursing  the  rain,,  and  told  the 
travelers  to  make  ready  for  departure.  Accordingly  they  went  outside, 
where  a  high  March  wind  was  whipping  the  light  rain  into  spray. 


5:    BURLINGAME'S  TALE  CONTINUED,  TILL  ITS  TELLER 
FALLS  ASLEEP 


ONCE  SETTLED  IN  THE  CARRIAGE  FOR  THE  SECOND  LEG  OF  THEIR  JOURNEY, 

Ebenezer  and  Burlingame  tried  to  sleep,  but  found  the  road  too  rough. 
Despite  their  weariness,  a  half  hour  of  pitching  and  bouncing  persuaded 
them  the  attempt  was  vain,  and  they  gave  it  up. 

"Fie  on  it,"  Ebenezer  sighed.  "Time  enough  to  rest  in  the  grave,  as 
Father  says/* 

"True  enough,"  Burlingame  agreed,  "though  to  put  it  off  too  long  is 
but  to  get  there  the  sooner." 

At  Ebenezer's  suggestion  they  filled  and  lit  their  pipes.  Then  the  poet 


[  152  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

declared,  "As  for  me,  I  welcome  the  postponement.  Were  my  bladder  full 
of  Lethean  dew  instead  of  Bristol  sherry,  I  still  could  ne'er  forget  the  tale 
you've  told  me,  nor  hope  to  sleep  till  I've  heard  it  out" 

"Thou'rt  not  bored  with  it?" 

"Bored!  Saving  only  the  history  of  your  travels  with  the  gypsies,  which 
you  told  me  years  ago  in  Cambridge,  I  ne'er  have  heard  such  marvels! 
Tis  well  I  know  thee  a  stranger  to  pervarication,  else  'twere  hard  to  credit 
such  amazements." 

"Methinks  then  I  had  best  leave  off,"  Burlingame  said,  "for  no  man 
knows  another's  heart  for  certain,  and  what  I've  said  thus  far  is  but  a  tuning 
of  the  strings,  as't  were." 

"Prithee  strike  'em,  then,  without  delay,  and  trust  me  to  believe  you." 

'Very  well.  'Tis  not  so  deadly  long  a  story,  but  I  must  own  'tis  a  passing 
tangled  one,  with  much  running  hither  ^ad  thither  and  an  army  of  names 
to  bear  in  mind." 

"The  grapes  are  no  fewer  on  a  tangled  vin^  Ebenezer  replied,  and 
Burlingame  without  further  prelude  resumed  his  tale: 

"Twould  have  pleased  Dick  Hill  well  enough,"  he  said,  "to  keep  me 
in  his  crew,  for  a  week  aboard  caused  all  my  sailor's  craft,  which  I'd  not 
rehearsed  for  over  fifteen  years,  to  spring  to  mind.  But  once  in  Maryland 
I  left  his  vessel  and,  not  wishing  to  bind  myself  to  one  location  by  teach- 
ing, I  took  a  post  on  Hill's  plantation," 

"Was't  not  equally  confining?"  Ebenezer  asked. 

"Not  for  long,  I  began  by  keeping  his  books— for  'tis  a  rare  planter  there 
can  do  sums  properly.  Soon  I  so  gained  his  confidence  that  he  trusted  me 
with  the  entire  management  of  his  sot-weed  holdings  on  the  Severn,  de- 
claring that  though  'twas  too  considerable  a  business  to  let  go,  yet  he  had 
small  love  for't,  and  had  rather  spend  his  time  a-sailoring  " 

"I'faith,  then  thou'rt  a  Maryland  sot-weed  planter  before  me!  I  must 
hear  how  you  managed  it." 

"Another  time,"  Burlingame  replied,  "for  here  the  story  makes  sail  and 
weighs  its  anchor.  Twas  1688,  and  the  provinces  were  in  as  great  a  ferment 
as  England  over  Papist  and  Protestant.  In  Maryland  and  New  England 
trouble  was  particularly  rife:  Baltimore  himself  and  most  of  the  Maryland 
Council  were  Catholics,  and  both  the  Governor  and  Lieutenant  Governor 
of  New  England— Sir  Edmund  Andros  and  Francis  Nicholson— ww  also 
known  to  be  no  enemies  of  King  James.  The  leader  of  &e  Maryland 
rebels  was  one  John  Goode— -" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Aye,  I  had  that  name  from  Baltimore,"  Ebenezer  said.  "He  is  the  false 
priest  that  snatched  the  government/' 

"An  extraordinary  fellow,  Eben,  I  swear't!  Haply  you'll  meet  him,  for 
he's  still  at  large.  His  counterpart  in  New  York  was  Jacob  Leisler,  who 
had  designs  on  Nicholson.  Now  it  happened  that  winter  that  Leisler  came 
to  Maryland  for  the  purpose  of  conniving  with  Coode.  Word  had  just 
reached  us  of  King  William's  landing,  and  'twas  their  design  to  strike  to- 
gether, the  one  at  St.  Mary's,  the  other  at  New  York.  To  be  brief,  Captain 
Hill  got  wind  oft  and  sent  me  to  New  York  in  January,  ere  Leisler  returned, 
to  warn  Nicholson." 

"Then  Captain  Hill  is  a  Papist?" 

"No  more  than  you  or  I,"  Burlingame  replied.  "  Twas  not  a  matter  of 
faith,  in  Maryland.  Old  Coode  is  no  more  for  William  than  for  James: 
'tis  government  itself  he  loathes,  and  any  kind  of  orderl  Leisler's  but  a  fop 
beside  him." 

"May  I  never  meet  this  Coode!"  said  Ebenezer.  "Did  you  reach  New 
York?" 

"Aye,  and  Nicholson  swore  like  a  cannoneer  at  the  news  I  brought  him. 
He  himself  had  come  to  Andros  in  '86  as  captain  of  an  Irish  Papist  troop, 
and  in  New  York  he'd  celebrated  the  birth  of  James's  son;  he  knew  well 
the  rebels  marked  him  for  a  Romanist  and  would  lose  no  chance  to  turn 
him  out.  He  tried  in  vain  to  keep  the  news  suppressed,  and  inasmuch  as 
Dick  Hill  had  placed  me  at  his  service,  he  sent  me  on  to  Boston  to  warn 
Andros.  I  gained  the  confidence  of  both  men,  and  at  my  own  request 
spent  the  next  few  months  as  private  messenger  betwixt  them— my  virtue 
being  that  I  was  not  a  member  of  their  official  family  and  hence  could 
move  with  ease  among  the  rebels.  Nay,  I  will  own  I  more  than  once  took 
it  upon  myself  to  pass  as  one  of  their  number,  and  thus  was  able  on  oc- 
casion to  report  their  doings  to  the  Governor." 

"But  thou'rt  fearless,  Henry!" 

"Eh?  Ah  well,  fearless  or  no,  I  did  the  cause  of  order  small  good.  The 
rebels  seized  Andros  that  spring,  as  soon  as  they  heard  of  William's  progress, 
and  clapped  him  in  the  Boston  jail.  In  New  York  they  spread  a  tale  that 
Nicholson  meant  to  fire  the  town,  and  on  the  strength  of  it  Leisler  mustered 
force  enough  to  take  the  garrison." 

"What  of  Nicholson?  Did  he  escape?" 

"Aye,"  said  Burlingame.  "In  June  he  fled  by  ship  for  London,  and  for 
all  Leisler  called  him  a  privateer,  he  got  back  safely." 


[  154]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Safely!"  Ebenezer  cried.  "Was't  not  a  case  of  frying  pan  to  fire,  to  See 
from  Leisler  into  William's  arms?" 

Burlingame  laughed.  "Nay,  Eben,  Old  Nick  is  not  so  simple  a  fool  as 
that,,  as  you  shall  see  betimes." 

"Well,  what  of  thee,  Henry?  Did  you  make  your  way  back  to  Maryland?" 

"Nay  again,  for  that  were  a  leap  to  the  fire  indeed!  Twas  in  July  that 
Coode  made  his  play,  and  by  August  had  the  Governor's  Council  besieged 
in  the  Mattapany  blockhouse.  Nay,  I  stayed  behind  in  New  England— first 
in  New  York  and  then,  when  Nicholson  was  safely  out,  in  Boston.  My 
design  was  to  get  Sir  Edmund  Andros  out  of  Castle  Island  prison.*' 

"B'm'faith!"  said  Ebenezer,  "  Tis  a  tale  out  of  Esquemeling!" 

"In  more  ways  than  .one,"  Burlingame  replied  with  a  smile*  "There  lay 
in  Boston  harbor  an  English  frigate,  the  Ro$#,  designed  to  guard  the  local 
craft  from  pirates.  John  George,  her  captain,  was  friend  enough  of  Andros 
that  the  rebels  held  him  hostage,  lest  he  bombard  the  town  for  the 
Governor's  release.  Twas  my  wish  to  do  exactly  that,  if  need  be,  and  spirit 
him  off  to  France  aboard  the  Ro$0." 

"However  did  you  manage  it?" 

"I  didn't,  though  'twas  no  fault  of  my  plan,  I  found  nie  a  friend  of 
Captain  George's  named  Thomas  Pound,  a  pilot  and  mapmaker,  who  was 
ready  for  a  price  to  show  his  loyalty  to  Andros.  The  Governor  escaped, 
and  five  days  later  we  slipped  out  of  the  harbor  into  Massachusetts  Bay, 
put  on  the  guise  of  pirates,  and  commenced  to  harass  the  fishing  fleet/' 

"'Sbodyl" 

"Twas  our  intention  so  to  nettle  them  that  at  last  they'd  send  out 
Captain  George  in  the  Row  frigate  to  reduce  us;  then  we'd  sail  to  Rhode 
Island,  pick  up  Andros,  and  set  our  course  for  France.  But  ere  we'd  brought 
them  to  such  straits,  word  reached  us  Andros  was  already  recaptured  and 
on  his  way  to  England." 

"In  any  case,"  Ebenezer  said,  "'twas  a  worthy  attempt/' 

"Belike  it  was,  to  start  with,"  Burlingame  replied.  "But  as't  turned  out, 
when  Tom  Pound  learned  'twas  all  for  naught,  he  was  in  a  pickle:  he 
could  not  sail  into  Boston  harbor  lest  he  be  hanged  for  a  pirate;  nor  could 
he  cross  to  France  for  lack  of  provision.  The  upshot  of  it  was,  we  turned 
to  doing  in  earnest  what  before  we'd  feigned/' 

"Nay,  f  God!" 

"Aye  and  we  did;  turned  pirate,  and  prowled  the  northern  coast  for  prey/' 

"But  marry,  Henry— you  were  with  them?" 

"  Twas  that  or  be  thrown  to  the  fishes,  Eben.  Aye,  I  fought  along  with 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  X55  ] 

the  rest  nor  can  I  say  in  truth  I  loathed  it,  though  I  felt  it  wrong.  There 
is  a  charm  in  outlawry  that  the  good  man  little  dreams  of.  ...  Tis  a 
liquor " 

"I  pray  you  were  not  long  drunk  with  it!"  Ebenezer  said.  "It  seems  a 
perilous  brew." 

"Tis  no  pap  for  sucklings,  I  must  own.  For  full  two  months  Pound 
robbed  and  plundered,  though  he  seldom  got  aught  for  his  pain  save  salt 
pork  and  fresh  water.  In  October  he  was  set  oti  by  a  Boston  sloop  off 
Martha's  Vineyard,  and  every  soul  aboard  killed  or  wounded.  I,  thank 
Heav'n,  had  made  my  escape  some  weeks  before,  in  Virginia,  and  inasmuch 
as  I'd  assumed  another  name  throughout  my  stay  in  New  England,  I  little 
feared  detection.  I  made  the  best  oft  back  to  Maryland  and  rejoined  Dick 
Hill  in  Anne  Arundel,  who'd  long  since  given  me  up  for  dead.  I  was  the 
more  anxious  to  leave  Pound  for  that  John  Coode  knew  Captain  Hill  for 
an  enemy  and  was  sure  to  work  him  some  injury  ere  long.  Moreover,  I  had 
another  reason,  more  selfish,  it  may  be,  but  no  less  pressing:  I  had  word 
that  there  were  Burlingames  in  Virginia!" 

"Nay,  'tis  marvelous!"  cried  Ebenezer.  "Kin  of  thine?" 

"That  I  knew  not,  nor  whether  any  were  yet  alive;  I  had  it  only  that 
a  Burlingame— in  sooth  .a  Henry  Burlingame— was  among  the  very  first 
to  settle  in  that  dominion,  and  I  meant  to  find  excuse  to  go  there  and 
make  enquiries." 

"How  ever  came  you  to  hear  oft,  while  you  sailed  willy-nilly  o'er  the 
ocean?  Tis  of  the  stature  of  a  miracle!" 

"No  miracle,  or  'tis  an  odd  God  worked  it.  The  tale  is  no  marvel  of 
brevity,  Eben." 

"Yet  it  must  be  told,"  Ebenezer  insisted. 

Burlingame  shrugged.  "As  you  wish.  Twas  while  I  was  with  Pound,  at 
the  height  of  his  pirating.  Our  usual  prey  was  small  merchantmen  and 
coasting  vessels;  we  would  overhaul  them,  steal  what  pleased  us,  and  turn 
'em  loose,  offering  hurt  to  none  save  those  who  made  to  resist  us.  But 
once  when  a  nor'easter  ha<J  blown  us  into  Virginian  waters  we  came  upon 
2n  ancient  pinnace  at  the  mouth  of  the  York  River,  bound  up  the  Chesa- 
peake, which,  when  we  had  turned  out  all  her  crew  for  looting,  we  found 
to  carry  three  passengers  besides:  a  coarse  fellow  of  fifty  years  or  so;  his 
wife,  who  was  some  years  younger;  and  their  daughter,  a  girl  not  yet  turned 
twenty.  She  was  an  uncommon  tasty  piece,  by  the  look  of  her,  dark-haired 
and  spirited,  and  her  mother  not  much  less.  At  the  sight  of  them  our  men 
put  by  all  thought  of  plunder,  which  had  in  truth  been  lean,  and  made  to 


[156]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

swive  the  twain  of  'em  then  and  there.  Captain  Pound  durst  not  say  them 
nay,  albeit  he  was  himself  opposed  to  violence,  for  such  was  their  ferocity, 
having  seen  nor  hide  nor  hair  of  woman,  as't  were,  since  we  sailed  from 
Boston,  they'd  have  mutinied  on  the  spot.  And  had  I  made  the  smallest 
move  to  stay  them,  they'd  have  flung  me  in  an  instant  to  the  fishes! 

'In  a  trice  the  ruffians  stripped  'em  and  fetched  'em  to  the  rail  Tis  e'er 
the  pirates'  wont  to  take  their  captives  at  the  rail,  you  know,  whether  bent 
on't  backwards  or  triced  hand  to  foot  o'ertop.  A  mate  of  mine  saw  a  maid 
once  forced  by  thirteen  brigands  in  the  former  manner,  with  the  taffrail  at 
the  small  of  her  back,  till  at  last  they  broke  her  spine  and  heaved  her  over. 
Tis  but  to  make  the  thing  more  cruel,  methinks,  they  do  it  thus;  Captain 
Hill  once  told  me  of  an  old  French  rogue  he'd  met  in  Martinique,  that 
swore  no  woman  pleased  him  save  when  staring  at  the  sharks  who'd  have 
her  when  the  rape  was  done,  and  that  having  once  tasted  such  refined 
delights  he  ne'er  could  roger  mistresses  ashore  " 

"No  more,  I  pray  you!"  Ebenezer  cried*  "Tis  not  a  history  of  the 
salvagery  I  crave,  but  news  of  the  hapless  victims." 

"Thou'rt  overly  impatient,  then/*  Burlingame  said  mildly.  The  vilest 
deed  hath  a  lesson  in  it  for  him  who  craves  to  learn.  Howbeit,  where  did 
I  leave  the  women?" 

"At  the  ship's  rail,  with  their  virtue  in  extremis.*' 
"Ah,  indeed,  'twas  a  bad  hour  to  be  female,  for  sixteen  men  lined  up  to 
ravage  'em.  The  husband  all  the  while  was  begging  mercy  for  himself,  with 
never  a  word  for  the  women,  and  the  wife  resisting  with  all  her  strength; 
but  the  girl,  when  she  saw  the  pirate's  design,  spoke  quickly  to  her  mother 
in  French,  which  none  aboard  could  ken  save  me,  and  she  made  no  re- 
sistance, but  asked  the  sailors  calmly,  with  a  French  cast  to  her  voice,  which 
they  had  more  use  for,  her  chastity  or  a  hundred  pounds  apiece?  At  first  the 
men  ignored  her,  so  taken  were  they  by  the  sight  of  her  unclothed. 
But  all  the  way  to  the  tail  she  pled  her  case-or  rather  posed  her  offer, 
for  her  voice  was  cold  and  merchantlike.  She  was  of  French  nobility,  she 
declared,  and  her  mother  likewise,  and  should  they  meet  with  injury  the 
entire  crew  would  surely  hang  fort;  but  if  they  were  set  free  unscathed,  every 
man  aboard  would  have  a  hundred  pounds  within  the  week, 

"Here  I  saw  a  chance  to  aid  them,  if  I  could  but  stay  the  pirates'  lust  a 
moment.  To  that  end  I  joined  their  fondling-even  pushed  some  others 
aside  and  forced  her  to  the  rail  myself,  as  if  to  take  first  place-but 
then  delayed,  and  when  she  made  again  her  offer  I  cried,  'Hold  back, 
mates,  and  let  us  hear  the  wench  out  ere  we  caulk  her.  Tis  many  a  tart 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  157  3 

we  could  have  with  a  hundred  pounds.'  I  reminded  them  further  of  our 
plan  to  cross  to  France  when  we'd  had  our  fill  of  pirating,  and  questioned 
whether  'twere  prudent  so  to  imperil  our  reception  there.  My  chief  intention 
was  to  stay  them  for  a  time  at  least  and  make  them  reflect,  for  reflection  is 
a  famous  foe  of  violence— 'tis  a  beast  indeed  who  rapes  on  second  thought! 
So  far  did  the  strategem  succeed,  that  the  men  began  to  jeer  and  scoff  at 
the  proposal,  but  made  no  farther  move  for  the  nonce. 

"  'How  is't  ye  ladies  of  the  court  be  sailing  on  such  a  privy  as  this?' 
one  asked,  and  the  daughter  replied  they  were  not  rich,  but  had  only  wealth 
enough  to  pay  their  promised  ransom  and  would  be  paupers  after.  Another 
asked  profanely  of  the  mother,  How  was't  a  noblewoman  thought  no 
better  of  her  noble  arse  than  to  wed  it  to  that  craven  lout  her  husband? 
This  I  thought  a  sharper  question,  for  he  was  indeed  a  coarse  and  common 
tradesman,  by  the  look  of  him.  But  the  daughter  $poke  rapidly  in  French, 
and  the  lady  replied,  that  her  husband  came  from  one  of  Virginia's  grand- 
est families.  To  which  the  daughter  added,  If  you  must  know,  'twas  a 
marriage  of  convenience,'  and  went  on  to  say  in  effect,,  that  even  as  her 
father  had  bought  her  mother's  honor  with  his  estate,  so  now  she  would 
buy  it  back  from  us,  for  that  same  estate.  The  men  took  this  merrily  and 
heaped  no  end  of  ridicule  upon  the  husband,  who  was  like  to  beshit  him- 
self with  fright  upon  the  deck.  They  were  now  of  half  a  mind  to  swive 
and  half  to  take  the  hundred  pounds,  but  scarce  knew  whether  or  not 
to  credit  the  women's  story. 

"Now  you  must  know  that  'twas  my  wont  whenever  I  met  a  stranger 
to  enquire  of  him,  Had  he  ever  known  a  wight  by  name  of  Burlingame? 
And  would  explain,  I  had  a  friend  called  Henry  Burlingame  Third,  who 
greatly  wished  to  prove  he  was  no  bastard.  All  the  men  aboard  had  got 
accustomed  to't,  and  made  it  their  jest  to  speak  amongst  themselves  of 
Henry  Burlingame  Third  as  some  grand  fellow  whom  all  must  know.  For 
this  reason,  when  the  lady  had  made  her  speech  a  wag  amongst  us  said, 
'If  he  be  a  great  Virginia  gentleman,  then  surely  he  must  know  Sir  Henry 
Burlingame,  the  rtoblest  Virginian  that  ever  shat  on  sot-weed.'  And  he 
added  that  if  they  knew  him  not  they  must  needs  be  impostors,  and  to 
the  rail  with  'em.  At  this  methought  the  game  was  done,,  inasmuch  as  'twas 
but  a  fool's  test,  to  give  excuse  for  swiving.  But  the  maid  replied,  she  did 
indeed  know  of  a  Henry  Burlingame  of  Jamestown,  that  had  come  thither 
with  the  first  settlers  and  declared  himself  a  knight,  and  she  went  on  to 
say,  by  way  of  proof,  that  'twas  much  doubted  in  her  circle  whether  he 
was  in  truth  of  noble  origin. 


[  158  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"At  this  the  men  were  much  surprised,  none  more  than  myself,  and  I 
resolved  to  risk  my  life,  if  need  be,  to  spare  theirs  so  I  might  query  them 
farther  on  this  head.  I  declared  to  the  men  that  all  the  wench  had  said 
of  Burlingame  was  true,  and  that  for  my  part  I  believed  the  whole  of 
her  tale  and  was  ready  to  trade  her  maidenhead  for  a  hundred  pounds. 
The  greater  part  of  the  men  seemed  ready  enough  to  do  the  same,  now  their 
first  ardor  was  cooled— the  more  for  that  our  pirating  ere  then  had  yielded 
little  profit.  Captain  Pound  raised  then  the  question  of  hostages,  and  it  was 
resolved  that  one  of  their  number  must  remain  behind  till  the  ransom  was 
paid,  and  forfeit  life  and  honor  if  'twere  not  At  this,  mother  and  daughter 
spoke  briefly  in  French,  after  which  each  pleaded  to  be  left  as  hostage, 
so  that  the  father  might  be  spared," 

44  'Sheart,  what  solicitude!"  Ebenezer  cried  'The  wretch  merited  no  such 
affection!" 

Burlingame  laughed,  "So't  appeared  to  all  the  crew  save  me,  who  followed 
clearly  what  was  said.  Know,  Eben,  that  these  fine  women  were  bald 
impostors.  The  daughter  had  conceived  the  ruse  and  told  it  to  her  mother 
in  French.  And  when  the  matter  of  hostages  arose,  the  mother  had  said 
Tray  God  they  will  take  Harry,  for  then  we'd  be  quit  of  him  for  fair,  and 
not  a  penny  poorer/  And  the  maiden's  brave  reply  was,  *  Tis  sure  they  will 
take  thee  or  me  for  swiving,  unless  we  persuade  them  of  his  value/  'FoghP 
had  cried  the  mother.  The  beast  hath  not  the  value  of  bou&m#rdef~~ 
which  is  to  say,  the  droppings  of  a  billy  goat  To  this  the  maid  replied, 
that  such  exactly  were  her  sentiments,  and  the  only  recourse  was  to  offer 
themselves  and  plead  for  his  release  relying  on  our  gullibility. 

"The  men  at  first  ignored  the  bait,  until  I  asked  the  ladies  Wherefore 
their  devotion,  seeing  he  was  such  a  craven  brute,  who  had  shown  no  con- 
cern for  them  at  all  what  time  we  made  to  swive  them,  but  blubbered 
only  for  himself?  To  which  the  maid  replied,  that  though  'twas  true  he 
cared  naught  for  them  and  had  liefer  part  with  both  than  lose  ten  crown, 
yet  they  did  adore  him  as  foolish  women  will,  and  would  perish  ere  they 
saw  him  injured.  The  husband  was  so  entirely  astonished  by  this  speech, 
that  at  first  he  could  not  speak  for  rage  and  tenor,  and  ere  he  could  collect 
himself  I  declared  that  clearly  he  was  not  to  be  trusted  ashore  but  must 
be  our  hostage,  and  the  ladies  sent  for  the  ransom,  inasmuch  as  their  de- 
votion to  him  assured  their  return.  The  men  were  most  reluctant  to  set 
the  wenches  free,  but  Captain  Pound  saw  reason  in  my  aiguznent,  and 
ordered  it  so.  The  fellow  was  sent  below  in  chains,  the  ladies  fetched  new 
clothing  from  their  chests,  and  a  boat  was  made  ready  to  cany  them 
ashore;  but  ere  it  left  I  got  the  Captain's  ear  in  secret,  aad  implored  him 


THE   SOT-WEEI>  FACTOR  [  159] 

to  send  me  with  them  to  guarantee  their  return,  inasmuch  as  I  could  under- 
stand their  tongue,  unknown  to  them,  and  would  thus  be  forewarned  of 
any  treachery.  He  was  loath  to  let  me  go,  but  at  length  I  prevailed  upon 
him,  and  rowed  off  with  the  ladies  in  a  longboat.  The  plan  was  that  Pound 
should  go  a-pirating  for  some  weeks  and  come  again  to  the  Capes  where  I 
would  rejoin  him  at  the  end  of  September.  Moreover,  to  quiet  the  suspicions 
of  the  crew,  and  their  envy  of  my  lot,  I  declared  to  them  aside  that  I  would 
have  the  women  themselves  bring  the  ransom  aboard,  which  once  secured, 
they  could  be  swived  till  the  rail  gave  way!" 

"Henry!"  Ebenezer  exclaimed.  "Can't  be  that " 

"Hold  on/*  Burlingame  interrupted,  "till  the  tale  is  done.  We  were  put 
ashore  near  Accomac,  on  Virginia's  Eastern  Shore,  whence  we  were  to  start 
our  journey  to  the  ladies'  home.  Twas  dark  when  we  landed,  for  we  feared 
detection,  and  we  resolved  to  go  no  farther  until  dawn,  but  make  a  fire 
upon  the  beach  wherewith  to  warm  ourselves.  As  we  watched  the  pirates 
make  sail  and  get  under  way  in  the  moonlight,  both  women  wept  for  very 
joy,  and  the  mother  said,  in  French,  'God  bless  you,  Henrietta;  you  have 
rid  us  of  .the  pirates  and  your  father  in  a  single  stroke!"  The  maid  replied, 
'Rather  bless  this  fellow  with  us,  who  is  so  wondrous  stupid  to  believe  my 
lies/  Indeed,'  said  the  mother.  'Who'd  have  looked  for  such  a  fool  'neath 
such  a  handsome  skin?'  At  this  they  laughed  at  their  boldness,  little  dream- 
ing I  could  grasp  their  every  word,  and  to  carry  the  sport  yet  farther  the 
maid  declared,  'Aye,  in  sooth  he  is  a  pretty  fellow,  mother,  such  as  you 
nor  I  have  never  spent  a  night  with/  'Nor  would  ever/  said  the  other, 
Tiad  we  not  got  shed  of  Harry.  I  must  own  that  had  he  made  the  threat 
alone,  I'd  have  let  him  have  his  rape  and  saved  our  money.  Yet  I'd  not 
have  wished  thee  touched/  'Oh  la/  the  maid  replied,  'think  not  I  plan  to 
lose  a  penny:  the  handsome  wretch  will  fall  asleep  anon,  and  we  shall 
either  flee  or  do  him  to  death.  As  for  my  maidenhead,  'tis  but  a  champagne 
cork  to  me,  which  must  be  popped  ere  the  pleasantries  commence/  And 
looking  me  in  the  eye,  she  said  for  a  tease,  'What  say  you,  fellow:  veux-tu 
&tre  man  tire-bouchon?  Eh?  Veux-tu  me  vriller  want  que  je  te  tue?' " 

"I  know  not  the  tongue/'  said  Ebenezer,  "but  the  sound  is  far  from 
chaste." 

"Shame  on  you,  then,  that  you  have  not  learned  it,"  Burlingame  scolded. 
"  Tis  a  marvelous  tongue  for  wooing  in.  I  cannot  tell  how  fetching  'twas 
to  hear  such  lewdness  spoke  in  such  sweet  tones.  'Poingonne-tu  mon  petit 
I  hear't  yet,  i'faith,  and  sweat  and  shiver!  I  saw  no  need  to  carry 


the  deception  farther,  and  so  replied  in  faultless  Paris  French,  '  Twill  be 
an  honor,  mademoiselle  et  madame,  nor  need  you  kill  me  after,  for  your 


[  ifo  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

joy  at  leaving  those  brigands  behind  doth  not  exceed  my  own/  They  had 
like  to  perish  of  astonishment  and  shame  on  hearing  me,  the  maid  es- 
pecially; but  when  I  explained  how  I  had  come  to  be  among  the  pirates, 
and  what  it  was  I  sought,  they  were  soon  pacified— nay,  cordial,  even  more 
than  cordial.  They  could  scarce  leave  off  expressing  gratitude,  and,  seeing 
the  cat  was  out  of  the  bag,  we  spent  the  night  a-sporting  on  the  sand." 

"A  pretty  tale  indeed,  if  not  a  virtuous,"  Ebenezer  said.  "But  did  you 
learn  no  more  of  that  old  Burlingame,  for  whom  you'd  saved  the  ladies?" 

"Aye,"  said  Burlingame.  "That  same  night  I  queried  them  whether  'twas 
but  a  fiction  they'd  contrived  regarding  Burlingame.  And  the  maid  replied 
'twas  no  fiction  at  all,  that  her  father  was  a  great  pretender  to  distinction, 
who,  though  he  was  in  fact  a  bastard,  was  much  concerned  to  glorify  his 
lineage  and  was  forever  running  hither  and  thither  for  ancient  records, 
which  his  daughter  had  to  search  for  the  family  name.  Twas  for  just  that 
cause  they'd  made  the  trip  to  Jamestown,  where  'mid  numerous  musty  pa- 
pers she'd  found  what  looked  to  be  some  pages  of  a  journal  writ  by  one 
Henry  Burlingame.  Howbeit,  she  gave  it  but  a  cursory  reading,  seeing  it 
made  no  mention  of  her  family,  and  recalled  only  that  it  spoke  of  some 
journey  or  other  from  Jamestown;  that  Captain  John  Smith  was  the  leader; 
and  that  there  seemed  some  ill  feeling  'twixt  him  and  the  author  of  the 
journal  Past  that  she'd  read  no  more  nor  could  remember  aught  Twas 
not  long  ere  I'd  had  my  fill  of  amorosities— for  thirty-five  hath  no  great 
stamina  in  such  matters— and  fell  asleep  beside  the  fire.  When  the  sun 
aroused  me  in  the  morning  I  found  the  women  gone,  not  have  I  seen 
them  since.  Twas  delicacy,  methinks,  that  moved  them  ere  I  waked— fall 
many  a  deed  smells  sweet  at  night  that  stinks  in  the  heat  of  the  sun,  What's 
more,  their  reputations  were  secure,  for  at  no  time  since  we'd  overhauled 
their  ship  had  they  revealed  their  names,  nor  more  of  where  they  lived 
save  that  'twas  on  the  Eastern  Shore  of  Maryland," 

"And  did  you  make  your  way  thence  to  Jamestown?* 

"Nay,  to  Anne  Arundel  County  and  Captain  Hill  I  wanted  sore  to  learn 
whether  Coode  had  harmed  him,  and  too  I  had  not  a  farthing  about  me 
wherewith  to  eat  Twas  my  design  to  work  awhile  for  Hill  and  then  pursue 
my  quest,  for  I  will  own  I  was  not  indifferent  toward  the  politics  of  the 
place,  and  would  have  welcomed  another  mission  like  the  one  I'd  just 
returned  from." 

'Thou'rt  a  glutton  for  adventure,0  Ebenezer  said. 

''Mayhap  I  am,  or  better,  a  glutton  for  the  great  world,  of  which  I  ne'er 
can  see  and  learn  enough." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  l6l  ] 

Til  warrant  Captain  Hill  was  pleased  to,  see  you,  and  surprised!" 
"He  was  in  sooth,  for  he  had  heard  naught  of  me  since  Leisler's  re- 
bellion in  New  York,  and  feared  me  dead.  He  said  his  positibn  was  most 
perilous,  inasmuch  as  Coode  and  his  men  were  daily  laying  waste  his 
enemies'  estates,  and  had  spared  his  either  through  caprice  or  uncertainty 
as  to  Hill's  influence  in  England.  Twas  Coode's  conceit  to  call  himself 
Masaniello,  after  the  rebel  of  Naples;  Colonel  Henry  Jowles  of  Calvert 
County,  his  chief  lieutenant,  played  Count  Scamburgh;  Colonel  Ninian 
Beale  the  Earl  of  Argyle;  and  Kenelm  Cheseldyne,  the  speaker  of  the  As- 
sembly, was  Speaker  Williams.  While  they  played  at  court  in  this  manner, 
and  bragged  and  plundered  down  in  St.  Mary's,  I  spent  the  winter  putting 
Hill's  estate  in  order.  Whene'er  'twas  useful  I  made  excursions  about  the 
province  to  the  end  of  fomenting  opposition  in  the  several  counties,  and 
in  the  spring,  when  he  got  wind  oft,  Coode  resolved  to  do  us  in.  He 
trumped  up  a  charge  of  treasonable  speech  and  dispatched  no  fewer  than 
forty  men  to  destroy  us.  They  seized  the  ship  Hope,  which  Captain  Hill 
had  been  at  seven  hundred  pounds'  expense  to  fit  out  for  a  voyage,  and 
rifled  the  estate,  and  'twas  only  our  good  fortune  in  escaping  to  the  woods 
preserved  our  lives. 

"I  went  at  first  to  sundry  other  sea  captains,  friends  of  Hill's  and  enemies 

of  Colonel  Coode " 

"Colonel!"  Ebenezer  broke  in.  "Methought  he  was  a  priest!" 
"The  man  is  whate'er  he  chooses  to  call  himself,"  Burlingame  replied. 
"He  owns  to  no  authority  save  himself,  and  is  a  rebel  'gainst  man  and 
God  alike.  In  any  case,  I  learned  from  these  men  that  Francis  Nicholson, 
deposed  by  Leisler  as  a  Jacobite,  was  now  lieutenant  governor  of  Virginia 
(which  is  to  say  the  chief  officer,  since  the  governor  lives  in  England )» 
and  this  by  order  of  King  William  himself!  It  seems  the  King  little  bothers 
what  a  man  is  called  by  his  enemies,  so  long  as  he  doth  his  job  well,  and 
in  sooth  Old  Nick  is  the  veiy  devil  of  a  governor  for  all  his  faults.  These 
tidings  fell  sweetly  on  my  ear,  inasmuch  as  Nicholson  was  the  very  man 
who'd  best  protect  us,  and  Jamestown  the  very  place  I  wished  to  go.  I  had 
Hill's  friends  write  letters  to  Nicholson,  describing  Coode's  barbarity  and 
asking  asylum  for  the  Captain  and  his  house,  and  ere  June  was  done  we 
were  in  Jamestown.  'Masaniello'  and  his  crew  begged  and  threatened 
Nicholson  by  turns  to  get  their  hands  on  us,  but  de'il  the  good  it  did  him. 
'Tis  both  a  fault  and  a  virtue  in  Virginia,  that  fugitives  from  Maryland 
e'er  find  haven  there." 


[  162  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"But  did  you  find  the  precious  journal-book  you  sought?"  asked  Eben- 
ezer.  "Or  was't  but  a  tale  of  a  cock  and  a  bull  the  lass  on  the  strand  had 
spun  thee?  Prithee  put  me  off  no  farther  on  the  matter;  I  must  know  whether 
such  an  odyssey  bore  fruit!" 

Burlingame  laughed.  "Make  not  such  haste  to  reach  the  end,  Eben;  it 
spoils  the  pace  and  mixes  the  figures.  Whoever  saw  an  odyssey  bear  fruit?*' 

"Tease  no  more!"  Ebenezer  cried. 

"Very  well,  Master  Laureate:  I  did  indeed  lay  hands  upon  the  journal, 
what  oft  there  was;  what's  more,  I  made  a  copy  of  it,  faithful  to  the 
letter  save  for  one  or  two  dull  passages  that  I  summarized.  I  have  it  here 
in  my  coat,  and  in  the  morning  you  shall  read  it.  Suffice  it  now  to  say, 
I  am  persuaded  'tis  a  bona  fide  journal  of  Sir  Henry  Burlingame^  but 
whether  or  no  the  fellow  is  my  ancestor  I've  still  no  proof/' 

"Ffaith,  I'm  glad  you  found  it,  and  scarce  can  wait  till  dawn!  Tis  good 
thy  tale  is  not  yet  done,  else  'twere  a  hard  matter  to  feet  away  the  hours. 
What  wondrous  thing  befell  you  next?" 

"No  more  tonight/'  Burlingame  declared.  'The  road  is  smoother  here, 
and  the  night's  nigh  done.  The  balance  of  the  tale  can  wait  till  Plymouth/' 
So  saying,  he  would  hear  no  protest  from  Ebenezer,  but  stretching  out  his 
legs  as  best  he  could,  went  to  sleep  at  once.  The  poet,  however,  was  less 
fortunate:  try  as  he  might,  he  could  not  manage  even  to  keep  his  eyes 
closed,  much  less  resign  himself  to  sleep,  though  his  head  throbbed  from 
weariness.  Again  his  mind  was  filled  with  names,  the  names  first  heard  from 
Baltimore  and  now  fleshed  out  by  Burlingame's  narration,  and  figures  awful 
in  their  energy  and  purpose  prowled  his  fancy— his  friend  and  tutor  first 
among  them. 


6:    BURLINGAME'S  TALE  CARRIED  YET  FARTHER;  THE 
LAUREATE  READS  FROM  THE  PR1V1E  /QURNALL  OF  SIR 
HENRY  BURLINGAME  AND  DISCOURSES  ON  THE 
NATURE  OF  INNOCENCE 


WHEN  AFTER  DAWN  THE  TRAVELERS  STOPPED  FOR  THEIR  MORNING  MEAt 

at  Yeovil,  Ebenezer  demanded  at  once  to  see  the  document  Burlingame 
had  spoken  of,  but  his  tutor  lefused  to  hear  of  it  until  they'd  eaten-  Then, 
the  sun  having  come  out  warm  and  bright,  they  retired  outside  to  smoke 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  163  ] 

and  stretch  their  legs,  and  Burlingame  fetched  several  folded  sheets  from 
the  pocket  of  his  coat.  Atop  the  first  the  poet  read  The  Privie  Jourhdl  of 
Sir  Henry  Burlingame. 

"I  should  explain  the  title's  mine/'  said  Burlingame.  "As  you  can  see, 
the  journal  is  a  fragment,  but  the  journey  it  describes  is  writ  in  John  Smith's 
Generdl  Historie.  Twas  in  January  of  1607,  the  first  winter  of  the  colony, 
and  they  traveled  up  the  Chickahominy  River  to  find  the  town  of  Powhatan, 
Emperor  of  the  Indians.  There  was  much  ill  feeling  against  Captain  Smith 
in  Jamestown  at  the  time:  some  were  alarmed  at  his  machinations  to  un- 
seat President  Wingfield  and  President  Ratcliffe;  others  charged  him  with 
flaunting  the  instructions  of  the  London  Company,,  in  that  he  wasted  little 
time  searching  for  gold  or  for  a  water  passage  to  the  East;  others  yet  were 
merely  hungry,  and  thought  he  should  arrange  for  trade  with  Powhatan. 
Tis  plain  the  voyage  up  the  Chickahominy  was  a  happy  expedient,  for't 
promised  solution  to  all  these  grievances!  the  Captain  would  be  out  of 
politics  for  a  while,  for  one  thing,  and  some  declared  the  Chickahominy 
ran  west  to  the  Orient;  in  any  case,  'twas  almost  certain  the  Emperor's 
town  lay  not  many  miles  upriver.  Smith  tells  in  his  Historie  how  he  was 
made  captive  by  one  of  Powhatan's  lieutenants,  called  Opecancanough, 
and  escaped  death  by  means  of  magical  tricks  with  his  compass.  He  swears 
next  he  was  carried  alone  to  Powhatan,  condemned  to  death,  and  saved 
by  intercession  of  the  Emperor's  daughter.  His  version  oft  I  have  writ  there 
under  the  title." 

Ebenezer  read  the  brief  superscription: 

Being  ready  with  their  clubs,  to  beate  out  his  braines,  Pocahontas,  the 
Kings  dearest  daughter,  when  no  entreaty  could  prevaile,  got  his  head  in 
her  armes,  and  laid  her  owne  upon  his  to  save  him  from  death;  whereat 
the  Emperour  was  contented  he  should  live  to  make  him  hatchets,  and 
her  bells,  beads,  and  copper;  for  they  thought  him  as  well  of  dH  occupa- 
tions as  themselves. 

"Ffaith,"  he  said,  "  'tis  a  marvelous  rescue!" 

"  Tis  a  marvelous  romance,"  Burlingame  corrected,  "for  the  substance 
of  the  Journall  is,  that  this  Burlingame  witnessed  the  whole  proceeding, 
which  was  not  so  wondrous  heroic  after  all.  I'll  say  no  more,  but  leave 
you  to  read  the  piece  without  delay." 

So  saying,  Burlingame  went  inside  the  inn,  and  Ebenezer,  finding  a 
bench  in  the  sun,  made  himself  comfortable  and  read  in  the  Journall  as 
follows: 


[  164  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

The  Privie  Journdl  of  Sir  Henry  Burlingame 

I  ...  had  divers  times  caution*  d  [Smith],  that  our  guide,  a  rascaHie  Salvage 
that  had  liefer  sted  f  purse  than  look  at  you,  was  nowise  to  be  trusted,  he  being, 
doubtless  in  the  pay  of  the  Em^  [Powhatan].  But  he  w*  none  of  this,  and 
when,  the  River  growing  too  shdlowe  for  our  vessels,  this  same  Salvage  proposed 
we  walk  overland  to  the  E1***  towne,  w*k  he  claimed  wets  hard  bye,  our  Ca** 
agreed  at  once,  maugre  the  fact,  w*h  I  poynted  out  to  himf  that  the  'woods  there 
were  thick  as  any  jungle,  and  we  w*  be  $ett  upon  with  ease  by  hostile  Salvages. 
The  Ca**  made  the  usuall  rejoynders,  that  he  ever  rnaketh  on  being  shown  his 
ignorance  and  follie,  to  witt:  that  I  was  a  coward*  a  parasite,  a  lillie-liver'd  infant, 
and  belike  an  Eunuch  into  the  bargain.  This  lost,  he  regordeth  as  the  suprem- 
est  insult  he  can  hurl,  for  that  he  him  selfe  taketh  inordinate  pride  in  his  virHitie, 
In  sooth,  such  a  devotee  of  Venus  is  oar  O*,  that  rare  are  th*  times  when 
he  doth  not  boast  openlie,  and  in  the  lewdest  terms,  of  his  conquests  and  feats 
of  love  dl  over  the  Continent  and  among  the  Moors,  Turks,  and  Africkans. 
He  fancieth  him  self  a  Master  of  Vonwedl  Arts,  md  boa&eth  to  have  known 
carruxUie  every  kind  of  Woman  on  Earth,  in  all  of  Arttines  positions.  In  addition 
to  w°*,  he  owneth  an  infamous  lott  of  croticka  collected  in  his  tr&vtis,  items 
from  w°*  he  oft  dtepkyeth  to  certain  of  us  privSi*,  with  dl  the  mwggnim  of  <* 
Connoisseur.  More  of  this  anon,  but  I  may  not*  here,  that  fudging  from  our 
O'«  preoccupation  with  these  thingp,  w**ofta$not  represent  unnatwatt  as  mU 
as  naturdt  vices,  I  w*  be  no  whit  surprised  to  learn,  that  h&  taste  comprehend 
more  than  those  of  t  he  common  libertine  .  *  *  * 

[The  Author  here  describes,  how  the  party  goetfa  ashote,  and  is  fed  by  their 
treacherous  guide  into  the  hands  of  the  Indians.] 

The  Salvages  then  setting  upon  w,  as  had  him  prt  dkrfrdf  by  mm  uriatr  thm 
our  O*,  we  fought  them  off  <ts  fast  w*  c*9  with  muM  wxxs*,  for  th*  qu&tm 
were  close  and  our  attaekm  virtual!**  atop  iw.  Our  Jwder,  /or  his  part,  shrtwdli* 
puWd  that  Ganelon  our  Guide  before  him  for  a  shield,  and  retreated  in  afl  haste, 
exhorting  us  the  while  to  fight  like  men,  HappUi*,  he  caught  his  foot  upon  a 
root  of  cyprm,  and  flew  backward  off  th*  b&&  into  th*  mud  md  >ct.  Th* 
Sdva%e$  having  by  tfcfe  time  captur*d  us,  leapt  upon  him,  md  held  him  fast  on 
his  back,  and  on  our  informing  them,  in  r*spons*  to  th*r*  gum*,  Who  iw  our 
leader?  that  it  was  he,  there  Chief,  Opecm&mougfi,  md  his  stmeil  Ueutmemte, 
pleas'  d  them  selves  openlie,  md  us  private,  by  thereupon  mofemg  water  upon  ftitn, 
each  in  his  turn  according  to  rank. 

[The  prisoners,  of  w<*  there  are  five,  are  cany'd  to  a  clearing,  where  they 
are  tied  one  at  a  time  to  a  sweetgum  tree  and  shot  with  arrows,  till  none  but 
Smith  and  Burlingame  remain,] 


^,m, 
to  the  same  fate  suffer'd  by  the  others.  A  gentleman  to  the  md  [Smith]  .  .  . 
modestlie  suggested,  that  I  precede  him.  Be't  said,  that  in  matter*  of  thi*  sort 
my  owne  generositie  i$  peer  to  any  mans,  and  hod  it  protfd  r*ce$s<me,  I  *** 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  165  ] 

stoutlie  have  declined  my  C°P*«  gesture.  Howbeit,  Opecancanough  pay*d  no  heed, 
but  him  selfe  taking  the  C^  by  the  arme,  pull'd  him  toward  the  bloodie  tree. 
At  this  juncture,  the  C0**  (who  afterwards  confided  to  me,  he  was  searching  for 
his  Africkan  good-luck  peece)  withdrew  from  his  coat  a  packet  of  little  colour7  d 
cards,  the  w°\  with  seeming  innocence,  he  let  fall  to  the  grvwnd.  The  Salvages 
at  once  became  arows'd,  and  scrabl'd  one  atop  the  other,  to  see  who  SM  retrieve 
the  most.  Upon  examining  them,  they,  found  the  cards  to  portray,  in  vivid  colours, 
Ladies  and  Gentlemen  mother-naked,  partaking  of  sundrie  amorosities  one  with 
another:  in  parties  of  two,  three,  four,  and  even  five,  these  persons  were  shown 
performing  licentious  feats,  the  w°h  to  be  performed  in  actuall  life  wd  want,  in 
addition  to  uncommon  lubricitie,  considerable  imagination  and  no  small  tallent 
for  gymnastick. 

One  can  fancie  with  what  whoops  and  howls  of  glee  the  Salvages  received 
these  works  of  the  pornographers  art,  for  Salvages  are  a  degenerate  race,  little 
rais'd  above  the  beastes  they  hunt,  and  as  such  share  with  white  men  of  the  same 
stamp  a  love  for  all  that  is  filthie  and  salacious.  They  at  least  had  in  their  favour, 
that  they  had  never  before  seen  a  white  woman  cloth'd,  much  less  uncloth'd, 
and  how  much  less  indulging  in  such  anticks  as  were  now  reveal9  d  to  them.  They 
laught  and  shouted,  and  snatch'd  the  cards  from  one  another,  to  see  them  all. 

[They]  ask'd  [Smith],  Whether  he  had  more  [of  the  cards]?  Whereat  he  took 
the  opportunitie  to  draw  from  his  pocket  a  small  compasse,  the  wonder  of  which 
was  (for  I  had  seen  it  before,  to  my  abashment),  that  not  only  did  it  shew  the 
poynts  of  the  compasse,  woh  marvett  alone  wd  methinks  have  suffic'd  to  awe  the 
Salvages  ...  it  dso,  by  virtue  of  tinie  paintings  on  small  peeces  of  glass  mounted 
inside  it,  treated  the  deprav'd  eye  of  him  who  lookt  through  little  peepholes 
in  the  sides,  to  scenes  like  those  of  the  cards,  but  more  real,  /or  that  there  dev- 
ilish creator  had  a  nice  facilitie  of  giving  to  the  scenes  a  sense  of  depth,  so  that 
one  had  the  feeling  (pleasant  to  degenerates)  of  peering  through  a  keyhole, 
to  witness  gentlemen  comporting  themselves  like  stallions,  and  ladies  like  mares 
inrutt,  .  . 

Hawbeit,  the  damnable  device  must  needs  be  held  in  a  certain  manner,  so 
that  its  lenses  caught  the  sun  at  a  proper  angle.  The  Salvages,  and  Opecan* 
canough  in  especially  being  quite  unable  to  master  this  simple  trick,  it  was 
neces$arie  they  preserve  the  wretch  my  C°*t9  life,  in  order,  presumablie,  that  he 
migfit  serve  as  operator  of  there  MayfdT  show  for  ever.  So  arows'd  were  they 
over  there  treasures,  that  maugre  what  I  took  to  be  suggestions  on  my  C****  part, 
that  only  he  was  needed  to  perform  the  miracles  of  the  compasse,  the  Salvages 
took  both  of  us  along  with  them  to  Opecancanoughs  town,  w°h  lay,  we  were 
told,  hard  by  that  of  the  Emperour  .  .  .  entirelie  forgetting,  in  there  vicious 
delight,  to  fill  my  stomacke  with  there  arrowes  .  .  . 

[The  twain  are  carried  to  the  town  of  Opecancanough,  and  thence  to 
Powhatans  town,  and  at  length  into  the  presence  of  the  Emperour  himself.] 


[This  prospect]  appeafd  to  please  my  Cw*  rrdghtilie,  for  he  spoke  of  naught 
besides,  when  indeed  he  deign'd  converse  tyith  me  at  all,  but  how  he  had 
schemd  the  most  efficacious  manner  of  winning  the  Emperours  favour,  as 


[  l66  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

soone  as  ever  he  SM  be  presented  to  that  worthie.  I  ...  warn'd  him,  more,  I 
confess,  toward  the  saving  of  my  owne  skinne,  w**  I  cafd  not  to  loose,  then 
the  saving  of  his,  that  we  were,  for  aught  1  cd  see,  still  mere  prisoners,  and  not 
emissaries  of  the  King,  and  that  as  such,  I,  for  one,  s*tf  be  content  were  I  to  leave 
the  forthcoming  interview  with  my  head  yet  affix'd  to  my  shoulders,  and  my, 
bellie  free  of  arrowes,  without  troubling  farther  about  Emperial  favours  or  barter- 
ing agreements.  My  C°P*  made  me  his  usual!  witless  insults  for  replie.  .  .  . 

On  being  led  into  the  house  of  this  Pawhatan,  my  feares  multiply*d,  for  I 
sweare  he  -was  the  evilkst-appearing  wight  I  hope  to  incounter.  He  seem'd  neare 
sixtie;  the  browne  fleshe  of  him  was  drfd  and  bewinkTd  as  is  the  skinne  of  an 
apple  left  overlong  in  the  sunne,  and  the  loohe  upon  his  face  as  sower,  as  w*  be 
such  an  apple  to  the  tongue.  1  sawe  in  that  face  no  favour  ,  .  .  Hfe  eyes,  more 
then  any  thing,  held  me,  for  despite  a  certaine  hardnesse  in  them,  like  old  flint, 
what  mark'd  them  most,  so  it  seem'd  to  mer  was  an  antick  lecherie,  such  as  one 
remarketh  in  the  eyes  of  profligates  and  other  dissolute  old  persons.  My  O*,  I 
might  $ay,  hath  the  beginning  of  such  eyes,  and  at  sixtie,  it  pleaseth  me  to  think, 
will  quite  resemble  this  Powhatan. 

The  Emperours  surroundings,  moreover,  did  beare  out  my  judgemmt;  in  addi- 
tion to  his  bodie-guard,  a  goodlie  number  of  Salvage  wenches  pottefd 
about  the  roome,  drest  like  Ladle  Eve,  only  flaunting  a  bitt  of  animal-skinne  aver 
that  part,  w°h  the  Mother  ofusatt  was  wont  to  disguise  with  a  peece  of  foliage. 
This  one  fetch'd  her  Lord  a  portion  of  tobacco;  that  one  lem'd  over  him  to  light 
his  pipe  with  a  brand;  this  one  rubb'd  his  backe  with  the  grease  of  bear*,  or  some 
such  mdodouTous  decoction  .  .  .  and  one  &  all  he  rewarded  with  a  smart 
tweake,  or  like  pleasantrie,  the  w**,  at  hi*  advanced  age,  ***  righttie  have  been  to 
him  no  more  than  a  fond  memon'e.  These  the  wenches  forebore  without 
compleynt  ,  .  .  m  sooth  they  seemd  to  vye  for  the  ancient  satyrs  attentions, 
and  performed  there  simple  duties  with  aU  po&ible  voluptuoumesse,  as  if 
therebye  to  rowse  there  King  to  acts  more  fitting  a  mm  my  age,  then  a  dotard 
his  ...  My  C<**  observed  these  maids  with  wondrous  interest,  md  I  sawe 
in  his  eye  more  attention*  then  v*  fay*  been  requir'd  stmplie  to  transfer  the 
scene  to  hi$  trumpeting  Historic.  For  my  selfe,  I  was  too  occupy' d  with  the  mere 
holding  of  my  'water,  w°*  h&inm  is  chore  enougjh  in  such  a  fearsome  pass,  to  ewe 
ivfort  chanrw  the  heathenish  slutt*  offered  there  Emperotav  or  with  what  tewd 
behaviour  he  replfd.  ,  .  . 

...  I  must  mention  here,  that  Pcwhaten  was  mt*d  on  a  sort  of  rw*d  bed- 
stead, and  on  the  floor  before  him  sat  a  retHi*  striking  Salvag*  maid,  of  perhaps 
sixteen  yeare$,  who  from  the  richw&e  of  her  costume  and  the  deference  pay'd 
her  by  the  other  Salvages,  I  took  to  be  the  Queen*.  Throughout  the  banquet 
that  fottcw'd  our  entrie  into  the  house,  this  young  ladie  scarce  took  her  eyed 
from  us,  and  though  unlike  my  O*,  J  am  a  man  not  given  to  fading  him  selfe 
a$  regard*  Afe  come/mm  to  the  faire  sex,  I  can  only  say,  in  woih,  that  what  was 
in  her  eye*  exceeded  that  natural!  curiositie,  w°*  one  might  «ftow  on  #nrt  behd& 
ing  fair-$kinn*d  men.  Powhatan,  I  thinke,  obwrfd  this,  far  his  fa*  gm>  ever 
more  sower  as  t fte  mede  progress*  d>  For  this  reason,  I  avoided  the  Queenes  &&* 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  167] 


assiduouslie,  so  as  not  farther  to  prejudice  our  state.  My.  C^,  for  his  part  .  .  . 
return9  d  her  amourous  glances  with  glances  of  his  owne,  of  such  unmistakeable 
import,  that  had  I  been  the  Emperour  I  had  struck  him  dead  forthwith.  My  poore 
heart  tremblfd  for  the  safetie  of  my  head  .  .  . 

[A  description  followeth  of  the  feast  serv'd  the  two  prisoners.  It  is  a 
Gargantuan  affair,  but  the  Author  is  unable  to  keep  a  morsel  on  his  stomach. 
Smith,  on  the  contrary,  gorgeth  himself  very  like  a  swine  in  the  slaughterhouse.] 


My  Cw*  .  .  .  took  it  on  him  selfe  then  to  make  a  small  speech,  the  gist  of  wch 
(for  I,  too,  comprehended  somewhat  of  the  heathen  gibberish)  was,  that  he  had 
brought  with  him  a  singular  gifte  for  the  Emperour,  but  that,  unluckilie,  it  had 
been  removed  from  his  person  by  the  Emperours  lieutenant  (that  same  infamous 
Opecancanough,  who  was  the  death  of  our  companions  earlier)  .  Powhatan  forth- 
with commanded  Opecancanough  thither,  and  bade  him  produce  the  gifte,  if 
he  had  it.  Albeit  he  was  loath  to  part  with  it,  Opecancanough  fish'd  out  the 
wicked  compass  before  describ'd,  and  gave  it  to  his  Chief,  who  thereupon  caus'd 
his  lieutenant  to  be  birch'  d,  for  that  he  had  intercepted  it.  This  was,  certain,  a 
grosse  injustice,  inasmuch  as  Opecancanough  had  had  no  knowledge  that  the 
compasse  was  meant  for  Powhatan,  as  neither  had  my  Cw*,  what  time  to  save 
his  skinne  he  had  given  the  vile  machine  to  Opecancanough.  Notwithstanding 
w°h,  the  Salvage  was  deliver1  d  out  the  room,  for  birching,  and  I  sawe  no  future 
good  therein  for  us.  .  .  . 

Next  my  Cw*,  to  my  great  astonishment,  commenced  to  shew  to  Powhatan 
the  secrets  of  the  compasse,  directing  its  little  lenses  at  the  fyre  to  light  the 
shamefull  scenes  within.  I  was  certdne  our  end  was  at  hand,  and  ready'  d  my 
selfe  to  dye  as  befitteth  a  Gentleman,  for  surelie  no  man,  not  even  a  Salvage, 
who  hath  the  qualities  to  raise  him  selfe  to  the  post  of  Prince,  even  over  a  nation 
of  benighted  heathen,  cd  but  be  disgusted  by  such  spectacles,  as  now  lay  illu- 
min'd  to  the  Emperours  eyes.  For  the  thousandth  time,  I  curs'  d  my  C"**  for  a 
black  &  arrant  fooL 

Yet  here  I  reckoned  without  the  degeneracie  of  the  Salvage,  whose  bestiall 
fancie  ever  delighteth  in  vilest  things.  So  far  from  taking  umbrage,  Powhatan 
had  like  to  split  his  lecherous  sides  on  beholding  the  little  painting;  he  slapt  his 
knees,  and  slaver'  d  copiouslie  over  his  wrinkfd  lipps.  A  long  time  pass'd  ere  he 
c*  remove  his  eye  from  the  foul  peep-hole,  and  then  only  to  peer  therein  againe, 
and  againe,  each  time  hollowing  with  glee. 

At  length  my  O*  made  it  knowne,  the  Queene,  as  well,  SM  receive  a  gifte, 
At  this  pronouncement,  I  clos'd  my.  eyes  and  made  my  peace  with  God,  for 
knowing  sufficient  by  this  time  of  the  nature  of  my  C™tB  giftes,  and  sensing 
farther  the  jealousie  of  the  Emperour,  I  expected  momentlie  to  feel  the  toma- 
hawke  at  my  neck.  The  Queene,  however,  seemed  greatlie  pleas'd  at  the  pros- 
pect As  I  might  have  guess'  d,  my  O>*  had  reserved  for  her  the  most  impressive 
gifte  of  die.  He  drew  from  his  inexhaustible  pocket  a  smalle  booke  of  sorts,  con- 
structed of  a  number  of  little  pages  bound  fast  at  there  tops  (this  miracle  too  I 
had  seene  at  Jamestowne).  On  everie  page  a  drawing  'was,  of  the  sort  one 
w*  be  loath  to  shew  ones  wife,  each  drawing  alter'd  only  by  a  little  from  his 


[  l68  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

neighbour,  and  the  -whole  in  a  kind  of  sequence,  so  thai ,  $**  one  grasp  the  lewd 
booke  by  the  top,  and  bending  it  slightlie,  attorn  the  pages  to  spring  rapidlie 
each  after  each  before  the  eye,  the  result  was,  that  the  figures  thereon  assumed 
the  semblance  of  life,  in  that  they  mov'd  to  &  fro  about  there  sinfull  business. 
Alas!  The  Queene,  it  grew  cleare,  was  depr&fd  as  was  her  consort.  Over  & 
over  againe,  once  having  learnt  the  virtue  of  the  small  booke,  she  set  the  actors 
therein  to  moving,  each  time  laughing  dlovtd  at  what  she  sawe  .  .  . 

[More  food  is  serv'd,  and  a  sort  of  Indian  liquor,  both  of  w*1*  Smith  takes 
unto  himself  in  quantity.  The  Author  declines,  for  the  same  reasons  as  be- 
fore. The  Queene  appoints  herself  to  wait  on  Smith  personally,  laving  his  hands 
and  fetching  bunches  of  wild-turkey  feathers  wherewith  to  dry  them.] 

The  while  this  second  feasting  was  in  progrem,  I  confriVd  to  tcrewe  up  sufficient 
courage  to  observe  Powhatan,  hoping  to  reade  in  his  face  prognostication  of 
what  was  to  followe.  What  I  sawe  did  not  refresh  my  spirits  .  .  .  The  Emperour 
never  tooke  his  gaze  from  the  Quern*,  who  in  turn,  never  remold  here  from  my 
C**\  with  everie  indecent  promise  in  her  eyes.  She  was  on  everie  side  of  him  at 
once,  fetching  this  &  carrying  that,  all  her  movements  exaggerated,  and  none 
befitting  any  save  a  Drury  Lane  vesioH.  My  O*>  whether  through  his  charao 
terist ick  ignorance,  or,  what  is  more  tikeUe,  in  pursuit  of  wme  twisted  design* 
of  his  owne,  reply* d  to  her  coquetries  in  kind.  None  of  this  ttcap'd  the  Emp*r~ 
our,  'who,  it  seem'd  to  m«,  iwis  scare*  abb  to  put  away  few  gluttonous  repast,  jot 
watching  them.  When  then  thi$  Powhatan  wmmon'd  to  his  couch  three  of  hi* 
evillest-appearing  lieutenants,  all  coafd  &  oyFd  &  bedaub'd  &  brtasseTd 
&  bedizen*d>  and  commenced  with  them  a  long  colloquy  of  heathen  grunts  & 
whisperings,  the  purport  whereof  was  tmtguivocijB,  t  once  a&rin*  commended 
my  soule  to  Cods  mercie,  for  I  looKd  to  m#*t  him  sftortiii  fax  to  face.  My  O* 
pay'd  no  heede,  but  wnt  on  blindli*  with  hi*  tport. 

My  ...  feares,  it  was  Boon  pmfd,  were  }u$tify*d<  Th*  Emptrour  made  a 
signall,  and  the  three  great  Sdvag**  lay'd  hold  of  my  O',  Despite  his  protest* 
tiow,  the  w**  were  lowd  enow,  he  was  cany*d  up  to  Powfortoi*  couch,  and  there 
forced  to  hi$  knees.  The  Salvages  lay*d  his  hu*d  upon  a  poire  of  gnat*  afcm«*>  put 
there  for  the  purpose,  and  catching  up  time  ugli*  ww^faifefej,  had  b*at*  out  what 
mdte  brdrm  my  C<#*  migfit  make  claim  to,  were  it  not  that  at  thi$  juncture,  the 
Qu&ew  her  setfe>  to  my  astonishment,  interceded.  Running  to  the  dtar,  the 
flung  her  wife  bodUie  upon  my  C***f  and  decbtfd  to  Powhatan,  that  rethxr  W*  she 
loose  her  owne  head,  then  that  they  $**  dash  in  fe&  Were  I  theEmperovrJowne 
I  $M  have  done  the  twain  to  d&zth,  for  that  so  cfaxre  an  alliance  c*  lead  but  to 
adultme  ere  long.  But  Powhatan  stey'd  his  fcuflw;  the  anemblie  was  dimist* 
saving  only  the  Emperour,  his  Queene,  my  O*,  &  my  self*  ( who  aU  9eem*d  to 
have  forgot,  thank  God) ,  and  for  the  nonce,  it  ettx&^myhtartw*  go  on  bett- 
ing in  my  breast.  ,  ,  . 

[Th*re  folhw'q  a  speech  by  the  Empewur,  w**,  a  best  I  grtap'd  it,  m*  w*> 
ww&  as  it  vm  improper.  Some  I  grant  ew&d  me,  for  that  Powhxtm  spake 
wth  great  rapiditi*  and  chetfd  Ms  word«$  witfcdL  Bui  the  minim  of  wlwrf  I 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  169  ] 

gather'd  -was,  that  the  Queene  was  not  his  Queene  at  all,  neither  one  amongst 
his  concubines  (whereof  he  kept  a  goodlie  number),  but  his  daughter,  her  name 
being  Pocahontas.  By  this  name  is  signify'd,  in  there  tongue,  the  smalle  one,  or 
she  of  the  smallnesse  and  impenetrabilitie,  and  this,  it  seem'd,  referr'd  not  to 
the  maidens  stature,  wch  was  in  sooth  but  slight,  nor  to  her  mind,  wch  one  c* 
penetrate  with  passing  ease.  Rather  it  reflected,  albeit  grosslie,  a  singular  physi- 
cked short-coming  in  the  childe9  to  witt:  her  prMtie  was  that  nice,  and  the 
tympanum  therein  so  surpassing  stout,  as  to  render  it  infrangible.  This  fact 
greatlie  disturb' d  the  Emperour,  for  that  in  his  nation  the  barbarous  custom  was 
practiced,  that  whensoever  a  maid  be  affianc'd,  the  Salvage,  who  wisheth  to  wed 
her,  must  needs  first  fracture  that  same  membrane,  whereupon  the  suitor  is 
adjudg'd  a  man  worthie  of  his  betrothed,  and  the  nuptialls  followe.  Now  Powha- 
tan,  we  were  told,  had  on  sundrie  occasions  chosen  warriors  of  his  people  to  wedd 
this  Pocahontas,  but  in  everie  instance  the  ceremonie  had  to  be  foregone,  seeing 
that  labour  as  they  might,  none  had  been  able  to  deflowr  her,  and  in  sooth  the 
most  had  done  them  selves  hurt  withal,  in  there  efforts;  whereas,  the  proper  thing 
was,  to  injure  the  young  lasse,  and  that  as  grievouslie  as  possible,  the  degree  of 
injurie  being  reck'd  a  measure  of  the  mans  virilitie.  Inasmuch  as  the  Salvages  are 
wont  to  marrie  off  there  daughters  neare  twelve  yeares  of  age,  it  was  deem'd  a 
disgraceful!  thing,  the  Emperour  shd  have  a  daughter  sbcteene,  who  was  yet  a 
maide. 

Continuing  this  discourse,  [Powhatan]  said,  that  whereas  his  daughter  had 
seen  fitt,  to  save  my  Cwt8  life,  what  time  it  had  been  the  Emperours  pleasure  to 
dashe  out  his  braines,  then  my.  C0**  must  needs  regard  him  selfe  affianc'd  to  her, 
and  submit  him  selfe  to  that  same  labour  (to  witt,  essaying  the  gate  to  Venus 
grottoe)  as  her  former  suitors.  But .  .  .  with  this  difference,  that  where,  having 
faiVd,  her  Salvage  beaux  had  merelie  been  disgrac'd,  and  taunted  as  olde  women, 
my  C***,  shd  he  prove  no  better,  his  head  w*  be  lay'd  againe  upon  the  stones, 
and  the  clubbing  of  his  braines  proceed  without  quarter  or  respite. 

Att  this  Pocahontas  heard  with  greate  joye,  maugre  its  nature,  w071  wd  have 
mortify' d  an  English  ladie;  and  my  OP*,  too,  accepted  readilie  (in  sooth  he  had 
no  option  in  the  matter) .  For  my  part,  I  was  pleas' d  to  gaine  reprieve  once  more 
from  the  butchers  block,  albeit  a  briefe  one,  for  I  could  not  see,  since  that  the 
Salvages  were  of  large  stature,  and  my  Ca**  so  slight  of  build,  how  that  he  s*4 
triumph  where  they  had  fail'd,  unlesse  there  were  some  wondrous  disproportion, 
in  both  cases,  betwixt  the  size  of  what  in  each  was  visible,  and  what  conceal' d, 
to  the  casuall  eye.  My  fate,  it  seem'd,  hung  on  my  C°**%  and  for  that  I  bade 
him  Godspeed,  preferring  to  heare  for  ever  his  endlesse  boasting  (w°n  wd  surelie 
followe  his  successe),  then  to  wettwith  my  braines  the  Salvage  clubbs,  woh  fate 
awaited  me  upon  his  failure.  The  carnall  joust  was  set  for  sunup,  in  the  publick 
yard  of  sorts,  that  fronted  the  Emperours  house,  and  the  entire  towne  was 
order' d  to  be  present.  This  alone,  I  wot,  w*  have  sufjjic'd  to  unstarch  an  ordinarie 
man,  my  selfe  included,  who  am  wont  to  worshipp  Venus  (after  my  fashion) 
in  the  privacie  of  darken9 d  couches;  but  my  C0**  appeared  not  a  whitt  ruffl'd,  and 
in  sooth  seem'd  eager  to  make  his  essaye  publicklie.  This,  I  take  it,  is  apt  meas- 
ure of  his  swinishnesse,  for  that  whenas  a  gentleman  is  forc'd,  against  his  witt, 


[  170  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

to  some  abominable  worke,  he  wiU  dispatch  it  with  as  much  expedition,  and  as 
little  noticer  as  he  can,  -whereas  the  rake  &  foole  will  noise  the  matter  about, 
drawing  the  eyes  of  the  world  to  his  follie  &  license,  and  is  never  more  content, 
then  when  he  hath  an  audience  to  his  mischief.  .  .  . 

[Here  endeth  the  existing  portion  of  the  journal] 

"  'Dslife,  what  a  place  to  end  itf "  Ebenezer  cried  when  he  had  finished 
the  manuscript,  and  hurried  to  find  Burlingame.  "Was  there  no  more, 
Henry?" 

"Not  another  word,  I  swear't,  for  1  combed  the  town  to  find  the  rest." 

"But  marry,  one  must  know  how  matters  went— whether  this  hateful 
Smith  made  good  his  boasts,  or  thy  poor  ancestor  lost  his  life." 

"Ah  well/1  Burlingame  replied,  "this  modi  we  know,  that  both  escaped, 
for  Smith  went  on  that  same  year  to  explore  the  Chesapeake,  and  Burling- 
game  at  least  set  down  this  narrative.  What's  more,  if  I  be  not  a  bastard 
he  must  needs  have  got  himself  a  wife  in  later  years,  for  none  is  mentioned 
here.  I'God,  Eben,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  yearn  to  know  the  rest!" 

"And  I,"  laughed  Ebenezer,  "for  though  belike  she  was  no  poet,  this 
Pocahontas  was  twice  the  virgin  I  am!" 

To  Ebenezefs  surprise,  Buriingame  blushed  deeply,  That  is  not  what 
I  meant" 

"I  know  full  well  you  didn't;  'tis  your  ancestry  concerns  you,  Yet  'tis 
no  vulgar  curiosity,  this  other:  the  fall  of  viigins  always  is  instructive,  nor 
doth  the  world  e'er  weary  of  the  tale.  And  the  harder  the  fell,  the  better." 

"Indeed?''  Burlingame  smiled,  regaining  his  composure.  **A»d  prithee 
tell  me,  What  lesson  doth  it  teach?" 

"'Tis  odd  that  I  should  be  the  teacher  and  you  the  pupil,"  Ebenezer 
said,  "yet  I  will  own  'tis  a  subject  dose  to  my  heart,  and  one  to  which 
I've  given  no  small  attention.  My  conclusion  is,  that  mankind  sees  two 
morals  in  such  tales:  the  fall  of  innocence,  or  the  fall  of  pride.  The  first 
sort  hath  its  archetype  in  Adam;  the  second  in  Satan.  The  first  alone  hath 
not  the  sting  of  tragedy,  as  hath  the  second:  the  virgin  pure  and  simple, 
like  Pocahontas,  is  neither  good  nor  vicious  for  her  hymen;  she  is  only 
envied,  as  is  Adam,  by  the  fallen.  They  secretly  rejoice  to  sec  her  ravaged, 
as  poor  men  smile  to  see  a  rich  man  robbed-e'en  the  virtuous  fallen  can 
feel  for  her  no  more  than  abstract  pity.  The  second  is  the  very  stuff  of 
drama,  for  the  proud  man  oft  excites  our  admiration;  we  live,  as*t  were, 
by  proxy  in  his  triumphs,  and  are  cleansed  and  taught  by  pnwy  in  his  fall. 
When  we  heap  obloquy  on  Satan,  is't  not  ouiadves  we  scold,  for  that  we 
secretly  admire  his  Heavenly  insurrection?** 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  lyi  ] 

"That  all  seems  sound,"  said  Burlingame.  "It  follows,  doth  it  not,  that 
when  you  profess  abhorrence  for  the  Captain,  thou'rt  but  chastising  your- 
self in  like  manner,  or  that  part  of  you  that  wisheth  him  success?" 

"  Tis  unequivocally  the  case,"  Ebenezer  agreed,  "whene'er  the  critic's 
of  the  number  of  the  fallen.  For  myself,  'twere  as  if  a  maid  should  cheer 
her  ravisher,  or  my  Lord  Baltimore  support  John  Coode." 

"I  think  that  neither  is  impossible,  but  let  it  go.  I  will  say  now,  friend 
Poet,  thine  own  fall,  when  it  comes,  must  needs  be  glorious,  inasmuch  as 
thou'rt  both  innocent  and  proud." 

"Wherein  lies  my  pride?"  asked  Ebenezer,,  clearly  disconcerted  by  his 
friend's  observation. 

"In  thy  very  innocence,  which  you  raise  above  mere  circumstance  and 
make  a  special  virtue.  Tis  a  Christian  reverence  you  bear  it,  I  swear!" 

"Christian  in  a  sense/'  Ebenezer  replied,  "albeit  your  Christians— St. 
Paul  excepted— pay  scant  reverence  to  chastity  in  men.  Tis  valued  as  a 
sign— nay,  a  double  sign,  for't  harketh  back  alike  to  Eve  and  Mary.  Therein 
lies  its  difference  from  the  cardinal  virtues,  which  refer  to  naught  beyond 
themselves:  adultery's  a  mortal  sin,  proscribed  by  God's  commandment 
—not  so  fornication,  I  believe." 

"Then  virginity's  a  secondary  virtue,  is't  not,  and  less  to  be  admired  than 
faithfulness?  I  think  not  even  More  would  gainsay  that." 

"But  recall,"  Ebenezer  insisted,  "I  said  'twas  only  in  a  sense  I  share  the 
Christians'  feeling.  Methinks  that  mankind's  virtues  are  of  two  main 
sorts " 

"Aye,  that  we  learn  in  school,"  said  Burlingame,  who  seemed  prepared 
to  end  the  colloquy.  "Instrumental  if  they  lead  us  to  some  end,  and 
terminal  if  we  love  them  in  themselves.  Tis  schoolmen's  cant" 

"Nay,"  said  Ebenezer,  "that  is  not  what  I  meant;  those  terms  bear  little 
meaning  to  the  Christian,  I  believe,  who  on  the  one  hand  hopes  by  all 
his  virtues  to  reach  Heaven,  and  yet  will  swear  that  virtue  is  its  own  reward. 
What  I  meant  was,  that  sundry  virtues  are— I  might  say  plain,  for  want 
of  proper  language,,  and  some  significant.  Among  the  first  are  honesty  in 
speech  and  deed,  fidelity,  respect  for  mother  and  father,  charity,  and  the 
like;  the  second  head's  comprised  of  things  like  eating  fish  on  Friday,  resting 
on  the  Sabbath,  and  coming  virgin  to  the  grave  or  marriage  bed,  whiche'er 
the  case  may  be;  they  all  mean  naught  when  taken  by  themselves,  like  the 
strokes  and  scribbles  we  call  writing— their  virtue  lies  in  what  they  stand 
for.  Now  the  first,  whether  so  designed  or  not,  are  matters  of  public  policy, 
and  thus  apply  to  prudent  men,  be  they  heathens  or  believers.  The  second 


[  1J2  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

have  small  relevance  to  prudence,  being  but  signs,  and  differ  from  faith  to 
faith.  The  first  are  social,  the  second  religious;  the  first  are  guides  for  life, 
the  second  forms  of  ceremony;  the  first  practical,  the  second  mysterious 
or  poetic " 

"I  grasp  the  principle,"  Burlingame  said. 

"Well  then/'  Ebenezer  declared,  "it  follows  that  this  second  sort  are 
purer,  after  a  fashion,  and  in  this  way  not  inferior  at  all,  but  the  reverse." 

"La,  you  have  the  heart  of  a  Scholastic,"  Burlingame  said  disgustedly. 
"I  see  no  purity  in  'em,  save  that  all  the  sense  is  filtered  out— the  residue 
is  nonsense/' 

"As  you  wish,  Henry— I  do  not  mean  to  argue  Christianity  but  only  my 
virginity,  which  if  senseless  is  to  me  not  therefore  nonsense,  but  essence. 
Tis  but  a  sign  as  with  the  Christians,  that  I  grant,  yet  it  pointeth  not  to 
Eden  or  to  Bethlehem,  but  to  my  soul  !  prize  it  not  as  a  virtue,  but  as 
the  very  emblem  of  my  self,  and  when  I  call  me  virgin  and  poet  'tis  not 
more  boast  than  who  should  say  I'm  male  and  English.  Prithee  chide  me 
no  more  on't,  and  let  us  end  this  discourse  that  pleaseth  you  so  little/* 

"Nonetheless/'  Burlingame  declared,  "  'twill  be  a  fall  worth  watching 
when  you  stumble/' 

"I  do  not  mean  to  fall/' 

Burlingame  shrugged.  "What  climber  doth?  Tis  but  the  more  likely  in 
your  case,  for  that  you  travel  as't  were  asleep— thy  friend  McEvoy  was  no 
dullard  there,  albeit  a  callous  fellow.  Yet  haply  the  fell  will  open  your  eyes/' 

"I  would  have  thought  thee  more  my  friend,  Henry,  but  on  this  head 
thou'rt  brusque  as  erst  in  London,  when  I  went  with  Anna  to  St.  Giles. 
Have  you  forgot  that  day  in  Cambridge,  the  pass  wherein  you  found  me? 
Or  that  malady  whereof  I  spoke  but  yesterday,  that  1  was  wont  to  suffer 
in  the  winehouse?  Think  you  I'd  not  rejoice,"  he  went  on,  growing  more 
aroused,  "to  be  in  sooth  a  climber,  that  stumbling  would  move  men  to 
fear  and  pity?  I  do  not  dimb,  but  merely  walk  a  road,  and  stumbling 
ne'er  shall  fall  a  mighty  fall,  but  only  cease  to  walk,  or  drift  a  wayless  ship 
on  every  current,  or  haply  just  moss  over  like  a  stone.  I  see  nor  spectacle 
new  instruction  in  such  a  fall" 

Buriingame  made  no  more  of  the  matter  and  apologized  to  Ebenezer 
for  bis  curtness.  Nonetheless  he  remained  out  of  sorts,  as  did  the  poet, 
for  some  hours  afterwards,  and  in  fact  it  was  not  until  a  short  time  before 
they  arrived  in  Plymouth  that  they  entirely  regained  their  spirits,  and 
Burlingame,  at  Ebenezer's  request,  took  up  again  the  tale  of  his  adventures, 
wBch  he'd  left  at  his  discovery  of  the  fragmentary  joqmal* 


7:    BURLINGAME'S  TALE  CONCLUDED,  AND  THE 
TRAVELERS  ARRIVE  AT  PLYMOUTH 


"THAT  PORTION  OF  THE  PRIVIE  JOURNALL  THAT  YOU  READ/'  SAID 
Burlingame,  "so  far  from  cooling  the  ardor  of  my  quest,  did  but  enflame  it 
the  more,  as  you  might  imagine,  inasmuch  as  it  said  There  was  a  Henry 
Burlingame,  yet  told  me  neither  that  he  e'er  had  progeny,  nor  that  among 
his  children  was  my  father.  There  was  one  ground  for  hope  and  speculation: 
namely,  that  Captain  John  Smith  set  out  that  very  summer  to  explore  the 
Chesapeake,  wherein  near  half  a  century  later  I  was  found  floating.  Yet  no- 
where in  his  Historie  doth  he  mention  Burlingame,  nor  is  that  poor  wight 
listed  with  the  party.  I  searched  the  ancient  papers  of  the  colony  arid 
asked  the  length  and  breadth  of  Jamestown,  but  no  word  more  could  I 
find  on  the  matter.  I  made  bold  to  enquire  of  Nicholson  himself  whether 
he  knew  aught  of  other  records  in  the  Dominion.  And  he  replied  he  had 
been  there  so  short  time  he  scarce  knew  where  the  privy  was,  but  added, 
there  was  a  grievous  dearth  of  paper  in  the  provinces,  and  'twas  no  uncom- 
mon thing  for  officers  of  the  government  to  ransack  older  record?  for  paper 
writ  on  but  the  recto,  to  the  end  they  might  employ  the  verso  for  themselves. 
He  himself  deplored  this  practice,  for  he  is  a  man  devoted  to  the  cause  of 
learning,  but  he  said  there  was  no  cure  for't  till  the  provinces  erected  their 
own  paper  mills. 

"It  seemed  to  me  quite  likely  my  Journatt  had  suffered  this  fate,  inasmuch 
as  'twas  writ  on  a  good  grade  of  English  paper,  and  the  author  had  employed 
the  recto  only,  I  despaired  of  e'er  discovering  the  rest,  and  in  the  fall  of  1690 
went  with  Captain  Hill  to  London.  Our  intention  was  to  litigate  to  clear 
the  charges  of  seditious  speech  against  him,  and  if  possible  to  undo  Colonel 
Coode  and  his  companions.  The  moment  was  propitious,  for  Coode 
himself  and  Kenelm  Cheseldyne,  his  speaker,  had  also  sailed  for  London 
and  would  not  have  their  bullies  to  defend  'em.  I  so  arranged  matters  that 
a  number  of  his  enemies  appeared  in  England  that  same  season,  and  I 
thought  that  if  we  filed  a  host  of  depositions  against  him,  we  could  thereby 
either  work  his  ruin  or  at  least  detain  him  whilst  we  plotted  farther.  To 
this  end  I  made  a  secret  trip  to  Maryland  ere  we  sailed,  with  the  design  of 
slipping  privily  into  St.  Mary's  City  and  stealing  the  criminal  records  of 


[  174  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Coode's  courts,  or  bribing  them  stolen,  for  no  clearer  proof  could  be  of  his 
corruption.  Howbeit,  the  man  anticipated  my  plan,  as  oft  he  doth:  I 
learned  that  he  and  Cheseldyne  had  carried  off  the  records  with  fem. 

"In  any  case  we  set  our  plot  in  motion.  No  sooner  did  we  dock  at  London 
in  November  than  the  Lords  Commissioners  of  Trade  and  Plantations  sub- 
poenaed Coode  to  confront  Lord  Baltimore  before  them,  to  answer  that 
worthy's  charges  against  him.  At  the  same  time  Colonel  Henry  Coursey,  of 
Kent  County,  petitioned  against  Coode  and  Cheseldyne,  as  did  John 
Lillingstone,  the  rector  of  St  Paul's  Parish  in  Talbot  County,  and  ten 
other  souls,  all  known  Protestants— for  'twas  Coode's  chief  defense  for  his 
rebellion  that  he  was  putting  down  the  barbarous  Papists,  as  he  sworn  him- 
self in  writing  at  the  time.  Finally  Hill  made  his  own  petition,  and  even  our 
friend  Captain  Burford  of  the  Abraham  &  Fnmeig,  who  had  helped  us  flee 
to  Nicholson  and  whose  ship  the  rogues  had  lately  crossed  on,  deposed  in 
Plymouth  that  Coode  had  in  his  presence  damned  Lord  Baltimore  and 
vowed  to  spend  the  revenues  embezzled  from  the  Piovince, 

"For  a  time  it  seemed  we  had  him  dead  to  rights,  but  he  is  a  damned 
resourceful  devil  and  had  a  perfect  shield  for  our  assaults.  The  year  before, 
just  prior  to  the  rebellion,  a  wight  named  John  Payne,  who  collected  His 
Majesty's  customs  on  the  Patuxent  River,  had  been  shot  to  death  either 
aboard  or  near  a  pleasure-sloop  belonging  to  Major  Nicholas  Sewall,  and 
Coode  had  rigged  a  charge  of  willful  murther  against  Sewall  and  four  ethos 
on  the  sloop.  Nick  Sewall  was  Deputy  Governor  of  Maryland  before  the 
rebellion,  but  more  than  that  he  is  Charles  Calverf  s  nephew,  the  son  of 
Lady  Baltimore  herself.  The  rebels  had  him  hostage  in  St,  Maiy's,  and  at 
any  time  could  turn  him  over  to  the  court  of  Neamiah  Blackistone,  Coodc's 
crony,  who  would  hang  him  certain.  Thus  our  hands  woe  tied  and  our 
plot  squelched,  the  more  for  that  we  had  not  the  criminal  recoitls  for  evi- 
dence. The  Lords  Commissioners  cleared  Captain  Hill  in  December,  and 
Colonel  Heniy  Damall  too,  Lord  Baltimore's  agent,  who'd  been  charged 
with  treasonable  speech  and  inciting  the  Choptico  Indians  to  slaughter 
Protestants  on  the  Eastern  Shore;  but  Coode  they  could  not  touch,  or  haply 
would  not,  at  Lord  Baltimore's  behest,  The  confrontation  came  to  naught, 
and  Coode  made  meny  with  the  whores  of  London,  on  money  swindled 
from  the  King  himself* 

"I  saw  no  farther  usefulness  for  myself  with  Captain  Hfll;  he  was  free  to 
go  back  to  the  Severn,  and  had  no  moie  taste  for  politics.  But  my  inteiest  in 
John  Coode  had  near  replaced  my  forme*  quest,  which  seemed  a  cuWwac; 
the  man  intrigued  me  with  his  cunning  and  his  boldness,  his  shifting  roles 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  175 \] 

as  minister  and  priest,  and  most  of  all  his  motives:  he  seemed  to  have  no 
wish  for  office,  and  held  no  post  save  in  the  St.  Mary's  County  militia;  he 
plundered  more  for  sport  than  avarice,  and  would  risk  all  to  make  a  clever 
move.  The  fellow  loved  intrigue  itself,  I  swear,  and  would  unseat  a  governor 
for  amusement!  At  length  I  vowed  to  match  my  wits  with  his,  and  to  that 
end  offered  my  services  to  Lord  Baltimore  as  a  sort  of  agent-at-large  in  the 
Maryland  business.  The  Lords  Commissioners  of  Trade  and  Plantations 
were  kindly  disposed  towards  Baltimore  at  this  time,  for  they  knew  full  well 
John  Coode  was  a  rascal  and  King  William  had  no  more  right  than  you  or  I 
to  seize  the  Province;  yet  they  could  do  naught  to  stop  'em.  Therefore 
when  time  had  come  to  name  a  royal  governor,  they  gave  milord  some  say 
in  his  selection,  and  he  picked  the  great  dunderhead  Sir  Lionel  Copley, 
who  could  not  tell  a  knave  from  a  saint.  Now  I  had  caught  a  rumor  that 
Coode  was  privy  to  the  Governor's  ear,  and  for  simple  spite  had  told  him 
that  Francis  Nicholson  of  Virginia  was  being  groomed  to  take  his  place, 
ere  Copley  had  e'en  left  London.  He  said  this,  I  was  certain,  merely  to  cause 
friction  'twixt  the  governors,  for  he  had  no  love  for  Nicholson  and  wanted 
a  weak  executive  in  Maryland  who  would  leave  his  own  hands  free.  This 
strategy  of  his  gave  me  my  own,  which  was  to  suggest  to  Baltimore  that  he 
should  in  fact  have  Nicholson  commissioned  lieutenant  governor  of 
Maryland,  since  word  had  it  he  was  to  be  replaced  in  Jamestown  by  none 
other  than  Sir  Edmund  Andros  himself;  and  farther,  that  he  should  then 
name  Andros  commander-in-chief  of  the  Province,  with  power  to  take  com- 
mand in  the  event  of  Nicholson's  death  and  Copley's  absence.  Twas  a 
fantastical  arrangement,  inasmuch  as  Copley  mistrusted  Nicholson,  Nich- 
olson disliked  Andros  (who  had  erst  been  his  superior  in  New  England), 
and  Coode  loathed  'em  all!  My  object  was,  to  so  mismatch  them  that  their 
rule  would  be  a  farce,  to  the  end  that  haply  someday  William  might  return 
the  reins  of  government  to  Baltimore. 

"Milord  approved  the  plan,  once  I  had  explained  it,  and,  seeing  farther  I 
had  the  confidence  both  of  Andros  and  of  Nicholson,  he  gave  me  the  post 
I  wished,  with  one  stipulation  only,  that  it  be  confidential.  Nicholson  and 
Andros  were  commissioned  by  March  of  1692,  and  the  instant  Coode  heard 
it  he  took  fright:  he  well  knew  Copley  was  too  thick  to  see  the  evidence  of 
his  mischief  and  too  weak  to  harm  him  if  he  saw't,  and  Andros  would  have 
work  enough  in  Virginia  to  absorb  him;  but  Nicholson's  neither  dull  nor 
weak  and  knew  Coode  already  for  a  rascal.  Posthaste  he  wrote  instructions 
to  an  agent  in  St.  Mary's,  to  steal  the  Journal  of  the  1691  Assembly  and 
destroy  it,  for  there  was  writ  the  full  tale  of  his  government  for  all  to  see.  I 


[  Ij6  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

heard  from  friends  one  Benjamin  Ricaud  had  joined  the  fleet,  and  knowing 
him  as  Coode's  messenger,  straightway  set  out  after.  Twas  my  good  luck  he 
boarded  the  ship  Bailey>  for  her  master,  Peregrine  Browne  of  Cecil  County, 
was  a  friend  of  Hill's  and  Baltimore's,  and  I  knew  him  well.  Moreover,  a 
number  of  our  men  were  there  as  well;  Colonel  Coursey,  John  Lillingstone 
the  minister,  and  others.  Between  us  we  contrived  to  search  Ricaud's  effects 
and  intercept  the  letter,  which  I  passed  along  to  Baltimore. 

"I  resolved  at  once  to  sail  for  Maryland  and  prevailed  on  Baltimore  to 
let  me  go  on  the  very  ship  with  Copley.  We  had  one  powerful  ally  in  the 
government,  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  who  as  His  Majesty's  Secretary  to  the 
Province  had  access  to  every  stamp  and  paper.  Twas  my  design  to  have 
him  steal  the  Assembly  Journal  ere  it  was  destroyed  and  smuggle  it  to 
Nicholson,  who  would  in  turn  then  fetch  it  here  to  London  for  our  use.  I 
was  the  more  eager  to  lay  hands  on*t,  for  that  in  that  document  my  separate 
goals  seemed  fused:  the  search  for  my  father  and  the  search  for  ways  to  put 
down  Coode  were  now  the  selfsame  search!" 

"How  is  that?"  asked  Ebenezer,  who  had  heard  the  foregoing  in  wordless 
amazement.  "I  do  not  grasp  your  meaning  in  the  least/* 

"  Twas  that  note  we  intercepted,"  Burlingame  replied.  "We  did  not 
know  its  import  at  first  sight,  for't  said  no  mow  than  Afcington:  Such  smutt 
as  Cttpt  John  Smiths  book  were  best  fed  to  the  fire.  'Abington*  we  knew 
was  Andrew  Abington,  a  fellow  in  St.  Mary's  that  Coodc  had  given  the 
post  of  Collector  for  the  Patuxent  after  John  Payne's  murther;  but  we 
could  not  comprehend  the  rest.  At  length  I  bribed  Racaud  outright,  who 
was  a  shifty  fellow,  and  he  told  us  'John  Smiths  Book'  signified  the  Journal 
of  the  1691  Assembly,  for  that  'twas  writ  on  the  back  of  an  old  manuscript 
of  some  sort.  For  aught  I  knew  it  might  be  but  a  draft  of  the  Hfetorif  I'd 
read  in  print,  but  nonetheless  I  could  scarce  contain  my  joy  at  hearing  of  it 
and  prayed  it  might  make  mention  of  my  namesake.  Nor  was  this  the  end 
of  my  good  fortune,  for  the  note  itself  was  writ  on  aged  paper,  not  unlike 
that  of  the  Privie  JourncOl  in  Jamestown,  and  I  learned  from  Ricaud  that 
Coode  had  traveled  often  in  Virginia  and  had  kin  that,  and  that  after  the 
rebellion  he'd  given  Cheseldyne  and  Blackistone  a  batch  of  old  papeis 
filched  from  Jamestown  to  use  in  the  Assembly  and  the  St  Mary's  court. 
For  aught  I  knew,  the  rest  of  the  Prim  Joumtll  might  be  filed  somewhere 
in  Maryland! 

"As  soon  as  I  arrived  in  St.  Mary's  City  I  made  myself  known  to  Sir 
Thomas  Lawrence  and  laid  open  Lord  Baltimore's  strategy.  He  was  to  steal 
the  Assembly  Journal  and  pass  it  on  to  Nicholson,  who  wodd  find  accuse 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  177  ] 

at  once  to  visit  London.  In  addition  I  meant  to  discredit  as  many  as  possible 
of  Coode's  associates,  and  to  that  end  persuaded  Lawrence  to  lure  them 
into  corruption.  Colonel  Henry  Jowles,  for  instance,,  was  a  member  of  the 
Governor's  Council  and  a  colonel  of  milita:  we  made  it  easy  for  him  to 
line  his  pockets  with  illegal  fees  as  clerk  of  Calvert  County.  Baltimore's 
friend  Charles  Carroll,  a  Papist  lawyer  in  St.  Mary's,  did  the  same  with 
Neamiah  Blackistone,  Coode's  own  brother-in-law,  that  was  president  of 
the  Council  and  Copley's  right-hand  man.  And  the  grandest  gadfly  of  'em 
all  was  Edward  Randolph,  His  Majesty's  Royal  Surveyor,  who  loved  to  bait 
and  slander  popr  old  Copley,  and  spoke  openly  in  favor  of  King  James. 
Finally  we  terrified  the  lot  of  'em  with  stories  that  the  French  and  the 
Naked  Indians  of  Canada  were  making  ready  for  a  general  slaughter.  In 
June,  not  a  month  after  we  landed,  Copley  was  already  complaining  of 
Randolph  to  the  Lords  Commissioners  of  Trade  and  Plantations;  in  July 
Lawrence  filched  the  Journal,  but  Nicholson  whisked  it  off  to  London  ere 
I  could  lay  eyes  upon  it.  In  October  we  exposed  Colonel  Jowles,  who  was 
turned  out  as  colonel,  councilman,  and  clerk.  In  December  Copley  again 
complained  of  Randolph,  and  swore  to  the  Lords  Commissioners,  along 
with  Blackistone,  that  Nicholson  was  on  some  sinister  errand  in  London — 
which  letter  greatly  pleased  us,  for  we  meant  to  use  it  to  advantage  when 
Nicholson  himself  was  governor. 

"Thus  we  harassed  old  Copley,  who  scarce  knew  what  was  happening 
till  the  following  February,  when  the  Lords  Commissioners  charged 
Blackistone  with  graft.  Then,  too  late,  he  saw  our  plot,  and  in  the  spring 
of  last  year  arrested  Carroll,  Sir  Thomas  himself,  Edward  Randolph,  and  a 
host  of  others,  among  whom  was  Peter  Sayer  of  Talbot,  the  man  I  was 
disguised  as  in  Ben  Bragg's  bookshop.  Sir  Thomas  was  jailed,  as  was  Carroll, 
and  impeached  into  the  bargain;  Randolph  was  arrested  on  the  Eastern 
Shore  of  Virginia  by  the  Somerset  County  sheriff,  but  ere  he  could  get  him 
out  of  Accomac  I  sent  word  oft  to  Edmund  Andros  in  Williamsburg,  who'd 
been  a  drinking-friend  of  Randolph's  since  the  old  days  in  Boston,  and 
Andros  fetched  him  home  for  safety." 

"E'en  so,  thy  cause  was  damaged,  was  it  not?"  asked  Ebenezer. 

"My  cause?"  Burlingame  smiled.  "  'Tis  thine  as  well,  is't  not,  since  we 
work  for  the  same  employer?  Let  us  say  instead  our  cause  was  discommoded 
for  a  time;  we  knew  well  old  Copley  couldn't  hold  such  men  for  long,  but 
we  wanted  them  out  of  prison,  not  alone  for  their  own  comfort  but  for  fear 
John  Coode  might  turn  up  in  their  absence  and  gain  ground  with  Copley. 
As't  happened  our  fears  were  empty,  for  both  the  Governor  and  his  wife 


[  178  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

died  in  September— methinks  they  ne'er  acclimatized  to  Maryland,  His 

death  suggested  to  me  a  wondrous  mischief " 

"Great  heavens,  Henry,  thou'rt  a  plotting  Coode  thyself!" 
"You  recall  I  said  Lord  Baltimore  had  made  Andros  commander-in-chief 
of  the  Province,  merely  to  play  on  the  jealousy  'twixt  him  and  Nicholson, 
and  his  commission  gave  him  full  authority  in  the  event  of  Nicholson's 
death  and  Copley's  absence.  It  struck  me  now  that  albeit  'twas  Copley 
dead  and  Nicholson  absent,  I  could  work  a  grand  confusion  anyhow,  and 
so  I  went  posthaste  to  Williamsburg  to  take  the  news  to  Andros  and 
persuade  him  his  commission  was  in  force.  He  was  inclined  to  doubt  it, 
but  he  knew  me  for  an  agent  of  Lord  Baltimore,  and  loved  to  exercise  his 
power  besides.  What's  more,  though  he  made  no  mention  oft,  he  was  not 
averse  to  stealing  Nicholson's  thunder,  as't  were,  by  rescuing  law  and  order 
in  Maryland,  for  he  himself  had  felt  the  pricks  of  following  Nicholson  in 
Virginia.  To  be  brief,  he  marched  into  St.  Mary's  City,  demanded  the 
government  of  Maryland,  dissolved  the  Assembly,  suspended  Rlackistone, 
turned  Lawrence  loose,  and  took  him  with  his  party  back  to  Williamsburg, 
leaving  the  Province  in  the  charge  of  an  amiable  nobody  named  Green- 
berry,  Twas  his  design  to  return  again  this  spring,  when  the  business  was 
cooled,  and  make  Lawrence  president  of  the  Council,  but  whether  he  hath 
done  it  I've  yet  to  learn, 

"I  could  see  no  immediate  employment  for  myself  in  Hie  Province  after 
this,  and  so  I  crossed  come  January  here  to  London,  both  to  wait  farther 
orders  from  Lord  Baltimore  and  to  search  out  the  Assembly  Journal  I  ar- 
rived not  two  weeks  past,  and  learned  to  my  dismay  that  neither  Nicholson 
nor  Baltimore  hath  the  Journal  in  his  possession  for  fear  of  Coode's  agents, 
who  would  stop  at  naught  to  get  it  Instead,  Lord  Baltimore  declares,  he 
hath  broken  it  into  three  portions  for  safekeeping  and  deposited  the  several 
portions  privily  in  Maryland,  whence  I  had  just  cornel  I  begged  of  him  the 
trustees'  names,  that  I  might  pursue  my  innocent  search,  but  he  was  loath 
to  discover  them~not  Nicholson  himself,  it  seems,  knew  more  than  I  on 
the  matter.  But  a  few  days  past  he  said  he  had  a  mission  for  me  of  such 
importance  he  could  trust  it  to  no  other  soul;  and  I  replied,  surely  I  was 
not  worthy  of  such  trust,  if  he  dared  not  name  me  the  keepers  of  the 
Journal  Whereat  he  smiled  and  said  I  had  him  fair,  inasmuch  as  the  gravity 
of  my  new  errand  outweighed  his  great  reluctance.  The  pieces  of  the 
Journal,  he  said,  were  in  the  hands  of  sundry  loyal  persons  of  the  surname 
Smith,  for  reasons  I'd  no  need  to  ask,  and  he  told  me  their  names  in 
greatest  confidence.  I  thanked  him  and  declared  I  was  ready  for  whatever 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  *79  1 

work  he  gave  me,  and  he  said  a  young  man  had  called  on  him  that  after- 
noon that  was  a  poet,,  and  he  had  charged  him  to  write  a  work  in  praise  of 
Maryland  and  the  proprietorship—the  which,  he  believed,  if  nobly  done, 
might  profit  more  than  ten  intrigues  to  win  him  back  the  Province." 

"'Sheart,  what  a  marvelous  small  world!"  Ebenezer  cried.  "And  how 
pleased  I  am  to  find  he  sets  such  store  by  poetry!  But  prithee  what  work 
was't  in  this  connection,  that  warranted  such  concession  on  his  part?" 

"He  enquired  of  me,  whether  I  knew  the  poet  Ebenezer  Cooke?  My 
heart  leaped,  for  Fd  had  no  word  of  you  or  Anna  these  seven  years,  but  I 
answered  merely  I  had  heard  mention  of  a  poet  by  that  name  but  knew 
naught  of  the  man  or  his  work.  More  than  this  I  thought  it  imprudent  to 
say,  ere  I'd  heard  the  nature  of  my  errand.  Then  he  told  me  of  your  visit 
and  proposal,  and  his  commission,  and  said  I  should  accompany  you  to 
Maryland— for  that  you'd  ne'er  before  been  out  of  England— and  act  both 
as  your  guide  and  your  protector.  I  leave  it  to  you  to  imagine  with  what 
readiness  I  took  on  the  task,  and  straightway  sought  you  out!" 

Now  the  earlier  portions  of  this  long  narrative  had  elicited  from 
Ebenezer  such  a  number  of  ah's,  marry?  s,  'sheart's,  and  b'm'faith's  that  he 
had  come  during  this  last  to  sit  for  the  most  part  wordlessly,  mouth  agape 
and  brows  a-pucker  in  a  sort  of  permanent  fGod!  as  one  amazement 
tripped  on  another's  heels.  At  the  end  he  was  moved  enough  to  embrace 
Burlingame  unashamedly— and  had,  he  found,  to  add  bad  breath  to  the 
host  of  alterations  worked  on  his  friend  by  this  seven-year  adventure:  it  was 
no  doubt  a  product  of  the  teeth  gone  carious.  The  trifle  brought  tears  to  his 
eyes— not  its  pungency,  but  its  poignancy— signifying  as  it  did  their  lengthy 
separation. 

"Ah  God,"  he  cried,  when  he  found  his  voice,  "if  Anna  but  knew  all 
you've  told  me!  Wherefore  this  role  as  Peter  Sayer,  Henry?  Why  did  you 
not  at  least  reveal  yourself  in  London  ere  we  left,  that  she  might  share  my 
joy  at  finding  you?" 

Burlingame  sighed,  and  after  a  moment  replied,  "I  am  wont  to  go  by 
names  other  than  my  own,  either  borrowed  or  invented,  for  sundry  reasons 
stemming  from  my  work.  'Twould  do  no  good  for  Coode  to  know  my 
name,  nor  e'en  that  I  exist.  What's  more,  I  can  confound  him  and  his 
agents:  I  posed  as  Sayer  in  Bragg' s,  for  instance,  and  forged  his  name,  merely 
because  Coode  thinks  the  man's  in  Plymouth  with  the  fleet.  In  like  manner 
I've  pretended  to  be  both  friends  and  enemies  of  Baltimore,  to  advance  his 
cause.  Once,  I  shall  confess,  that  time  on  Perry  Browne's  ship  Bailey,  I 
posed  as  Coode  himself  to  the  poor  dolt  Ben  Ricaud,  to  intercept  those 


[  l8o  ]     '  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

letters;  Ricaud  was  a  London  friend  of  Cheseldyne's  and  had  ne'er  seen 
Coode  before,  for  all  he'd  heard  of  him.  The  truth  is,  Eben,  no  man  save 
Richard  Hill,  Lord  Baltimore,,  and  yourself  hath  known  my  name  since 
1687,  when  first  I  commenced  to  play  the  game  of  governments;  and  the 
game  itself  hath  made  such  changes  in  me,  that  none  who  knew  me  erst 
would  know  me  now,  nor  do  I  mean  them  to.  Tis  better  they  think  me 
lost." 

"Yet  surely  Anna " 

"  'Tis  but  thy  first  enquiry  I've  replied  to/*  Burlingame  interrupted,  rais- 
ing his  forefinger.  "For  the  second,  do  not  forget  that  many  are  bound 
from  London  for  the  fleet— Coode's  men  as  well  as  ours,  and  haply  Coode 
himself— whether  to  place  themselves  under  Nicholson's  protection  or 
work  some  mischief  against  him.  Twould  have  been  foolish,  even  perilous, 
to  shed  my  mask  in  that  place.  Moreover,  there  was  no  time:  I  scarce  caught 
up  with  you  ere  you  left,  and  mark  how  long  I've  beea  discovering  myself 
to  you.  The  fleet  had  sailed  without  us/* 

"Aye,  that's  true,"  Ebenezer  admitted. 

"What's  more"— Burlingame  laughed— 4Td  not  yet  made  my  own  mind 
up,  whether  'twere  wise  e'en  you  should  know  the  truth.0 

"What!  Think  you  I'd  e'er  betray  thy  trust?  And  could  you  thus  callously 
deprive  me  of  my  only  friend?  You  injure  me!" 

"As  to  the  first,  'twas  just  to  answer  it  I  posed  as  Saycr  and  queried  you— 
the  years  change  any  man.  Ben  Bragg  had  said  fchou'rt  but  an  opportunist; 
nor  was  your  servant  more  persuaded  of  your  motive,  for  all  he  admired 
you.  Again,  how  could  I  know  your  sentiments  towards  Burlingame?  The 
tale  you  told  to  Peter  Sayer  was  your  bond;  when  I  had  heard  it,  I  revealed 
myself  at  once,  but  had  you  sung  a  different  tune,  'tis  Peter  Sayer  had  been 
your  guide,  not  Burlingame/' 

"Enough.  I  am  convinced  and  cannot  tell  my  joy.  Yet  your  relation 
shames  me  for  my  tearfulness  and  sloth,  as  doth  your  wisdom  my  poor 
talent.  Thou'rt  a  Virgil  worth  a  better  Dante," 

"Oh  la,"  Burlingame  scoffed,  "you've  wit  enough,  and  ear,  Besides,  the 
Province  is  no  Hell  or  Purgatorio,  but  just  a  piece  o*  the  great  world  like 
England— with  the  difference,  haply,  that  the  soil  is  vast  and  new  where  the 
sot-weed  hath  not  drained  it  and  oft  will  sprout  wild  seeds  of  energy  in  men 
that  had  lain  fallow  here.  What's  more,  the  reins  and  checks  are  few  and 
weak;  good  plants  and  weeds  alike  grow  tall  Do  but  recall,  if  the  people 
there  seem  strange  and  rough:  a  man  content  with  Europe  scarce  would 
cross  the  ocean.  The  plain  fact  is,  the  greatest  part  are  castaways  from 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  l8l  ] 

Europe,  or  the  sons  of  castaways:  rebels,  failures,  jailbirds  and  adventurers. 
Cast  such  seed  on  such  soil,  and  'twere  fond  to  seek  a  crop  of  dons  and 
courtiers!" 

"Yet  you  speak  as  one  who  loves  the  place/'  said  Ebenezer,  "and  that 
alone,  for  me,  is  warrant  I  shall  too." 

Burlingame  shrugged— another  habit  apparently  picked  up  in  his  travels. 
"Haply  so,  haply  no.  There  is  a  freedom  there  that's  both  a  blessing  and  a 
curse,  for't  means  both  liberty  and  lawlessness.  Tis  more  than  just  political 
and  religious  liberty— they  come  and  go  from  one  year  to  the  next.  Tis 
philosophic  liberty  I  speak  of,  that  comes  from  want  of  history.  It  throws 
one  on  his  own  resources,  that  freedom— makes  every  man  an  orphan  like 
myself  and  can  as  well  demoralize  as  elevate.  But  no  more:  I  see  the  masts 
and  spires  of  Plymouth  yonder.  You'll  know  the  Province  soon  enough  and 
how  it  strikes  you!" 

Even  as  Burlingame  spoke  the  smell  of  the  sea  blew  into  the  carriage, 
stirring  Ebenezer  to  the  depths  of  his  being,  and  when  a  short  while  later 
he  saw  it  for  the  first  time,  spread  out  before  him  to  the  far  horizon,  he 
shivered  twice  or  thrice  all  over  and  came  near  to  passing  water  in  his 
breeches. 


8:    THE  LAUREATE  INDITES  A  QUATRAIN  AND  FOULS 
HIS  BREECHES 


"REMEMBER,"  BURLINGAME  SAID  AS  THE  CARRIAGE  ROLLED  INTO  PLYM- 
outh,  "I  am  not  Henry  Burlingame,  nor  Peter  Sayer  either,  for  the  real 
Sayer's  somewhere  on  the  fleet.  You'd  best  not  give  me  any  name  at  all,  I 
think,  till  I  see  how  lays  the  land." 

Accordingly,  as  soon  as  their  chests  and  trunks  were  put  down  they 
inquired  after  the  Poseidon  at  the  wharves  and  were  told  it  had  already 
joined  the  fleet. 

"What!"  cried  Ebenezer.  "Then  we  have  missed  it  after  alll" 

"Nay,"  Burlingame  smiled,  "  'tis  not  unusual.  The  fleet  assembles  yonder 
in  the  Downs  off  The  Lizard;  you  can  see't  from  here  on  a  clear  day." 

Inquiring  further  he  found  a  shallop  doing  ferry-service  between  the 
Downs  and  the  harbor,  and  arranged  for  passage  aboard  it  in  the  afternoon. 

"We'd  as  well  take  one  last  meal  ashore,"  he  explained  to  Ebenezer. 


[  182  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Moreover  I  must  change  clothing,  for  I've  resolved  to  pose  as  your  servant 
What  was  his  name?'7 

"Bertrand,"  Ebenezer  murmured.  "But  must  you  be  a  servant?" 

"Aye,  or  else  invent  an  entire  gentleman  as  your  companion*  As  Bertrand 
I  can  pass  unnoticed  in  your  company  and  hear  more  news  as  well  of  your 
fellow  travelers." 

So  saying  he  led  the  way  across  the  street  from  the  wharves  to  a  tavern 
advertising  itself  by  two  capital  letter  Cs>  face  to  face  and  interlocking,  the 
figure  surmounted  by  a  three-lobed  crown* 

"Here's  the  King  o'  the  Seas/'  said  Burlingame  "Tis  a  jolly  place,  by 
Heav'n.  I  know  it  of  old/'  They  stepped  inside  the  door  and  surveyed  the 
room.  Burlingame  sighed.  "  'Twas  here  I  got  my  first  wee  clap,  while  still  a 
hand  on  Captain  Salmon's  ship.  A  bony  Welsh  tart  gave  it  me,  that  had 
made  the  best  of  my  inexperience  to  charge  me  a  clean  girl's  price,  and  by 
the  time  the  fraud  came  clear  I  was  many  a  day's  sail  from  Plymouth, 
bound  for  Lisbon.  The  clap  soon  left  me,  but  I  ne'er  forgot  the  wench* 
When  in  Lisbon  I  found  a  vessel  bound  for  Plymouth  and  made  enquiries 
amongst  the  crew,  till  at  length  I  hit  upon  a  one-eyed  Portugee  that  was  like 
to  perish  of  a  miserable  clap  from  Africa,  beside  which  our  English  sort  was 
but  a  fleabite.  This  frightful  wight  I  gave  my  fine  new  quadrant  to,  that 
Captain  Salmon  had  bought  me  to  practice  navigation  with,  on  condi- 
tion he  share  his  clap  with  the  Welsh  whore  at  the  King  o*  the  Seas  directly 
he  made  port.  But  no  man  e'er  died  of  the  food  here," 

It  being  midmorning,  the  tavern  was  deserted  except  for  a  young  saving 
maid  scrubbing  the  flagstone  floor.  She  was  short  and  plump,  coarse-haired 
and  befreckled,  but  her  eyes  had  a  merry  light  and  her  nose  a  pertness, 
Leaving  Ebenezer  to  select  a  table,  Burlingame  approached  her  familiarly 
and  engaged  her  in  conversation  which,  though  spoken  in  voices  too  low 
for  Ebenezer  to  hear  distinctly,  soon  had  her  laughing  and  wagging  a  finger 
in  feigned  admonition, 

"The  duckling  swore  she'd  naught  but  fish  in  the  larder/*  he  said  when 
presently  he  returned,  "but  when  I  told  her  'twas  a  lauitsate  she  was  feeding, 
that  could  lay  the  place  low  with  Hudibrastics,  she  agreed  to  stay  year  pen 
with  roast  of  beef.  Twill  be  heie  anon." 

"You  twit  me,"  Ebenezer  said  modestly. 

Burlingame  shmgged.  "Methinks  Til  change  costume  the  while  ifs 
fixing.  I  must  ask  yonder  cherub  the  way  to  the  privy," 

"But  our  baggage  is  on  the  wharf," 

"No  matter.  Scotch  cloth  to  silk  is  oft  a  life-time's  journey,  but  sflk  to 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  183  ] 

Scotch  cloth  can  be  traversed  in  a  minute."  He  went  again  to  the  serving 
maid,  who  smiled  at  his  approach,  and  spoke  §oftly  to  her,  at  the  same 
time  pinching  her  smartly.  She  squealed  in  mock  protest  and,  one  hand 
on  her  hip,  pointed  laughing  to  a  door  beside  the  fireplace.  Burlingame 
then  took  her  arm  as  though  to  lead  her  along  with  him;  when  she  drew 
back  he  whispered  seriously  in  her  ear  and  whispered  again  when  she  gasped 
and  shook  her  head.  She  glanced  towards  Ebenezer,  who  blushed  at  once 
and  feigned  preoccupation  with  the  set  of  his  cravat;  Burlingame  whispered 
a  third  message  that  turned  her  bright  eyes  coyly,  and  left  the  room  through 
the  indicated  door.  The  girl  lingered  for  two  minutes  in  the  room.  Then 
she  took  another  sharp  look  at  Ebenezer,  sniffed,  and  flounced  through 
the  same  door. 

Though  he  was  not  a  little  embarrassed  by  the  small  drama,  the  poet  was 
pleased  enough  to  be  alone  for  a  short  while,  not  only  to  ponder  the 
wondrous  adventures  of  his  friend,  which  had  been  two  days  in  the  telling 
(and  the  vast  reaches  of  terra  incognita  he  had  glimpsed  in  the  character 
of  the  man  he  thought  he'd  known  entire),  but  also  to  take  stock  of  his 
own  position;  to  reflect  a  final  time  on  the  grand  adventure  into  which 
he'd  flung  himself  and  the  marvelous  step  he  was  about  to  take. 

"I  have  been  so  occupied  gaping  and  gasping  at  Henry,"  said  he  to  him- 
self, "I  have  near  forgot  who  I  am,  and  what  business  I'm  embarked  upon. 
Not  a  line  have  I  writ  since  London,  nor  thought  at  all  of  logging  my 
journey/' 

He  forthwith  spread  before  him  on  the  table  his  ever-present  double- 
entry  ledger,  open  to  that  page  whereon  was  transcribed  the  first  quatrain 
of  his  official  career,  and  fetching  quill  and  ink  from  a  stand  on  the  wall 
next  the  serving-bar,  considered  what  should  grace  the  facing-page. 

"I  can  say  naught  whate'er  of  my  journey  hither,  in  the  Marylandiad" 
he  reflected,  "for  I  saw  but  little  oft.  Moreover,  *twere  fitter  I  commenced 
the  poem  from  Plymouth,,  where  most  who  sail  to  Maryland  take  their 
leave  of  Albion's  rocks;  'twill  pitch  the  teader  straightway  on  his  voyage/' 
Pursuing  farther  this  line  of  thought,  he  resolved  to  write  his  epn 
Marylandiad  in  the  form  of  an  imaginary  voyage,  thinking  thereby  to  dis 
cover  to  the  reader  the  delights  of  the  Province  with  the  same  freshnes' 
and  surprise  wherewith  they  would  discover  themselves  to  the  voyager-poet. 
It  was  with  pleasure  and  a  kind  of  awe,  therefore,  that  he  recalled  the  name 
of  his  ship. 

"Poseidonl"  he  thought,  "It  bodes  well,  f faith!  A  very  Virgil  for  com- 


[  184  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

panion,  and  the  Earth-Shaker  himself  for  fenymaster  to  this  Elysium!  What 
ill  can  befall  who  sails  in  such  company?'* 

And  turning  the  happy  figure  some  minutes  in  his  mind,  at  length  he 
wrote: 

Let  Ocean  roar  his  damn'dest  Gate: 

Our  Planks  shan't  leak;  our  Masts  shan't  fo& 

With  great  Poseidon  at  our  Side 

He  seemeth  neither  wild  nor  wide. 

At  the  foot  he  appended  E.G.,  G**\  P*  &  L?  of  M*,  and  beamed  with 
satisfaction. 

"Naught  succeedeth  like  success"  he  declared  to  himself, 
While  he  was  thus  engaged,  two  men  came  into  the  tavern  and  noisily 
closed  the  door.  They  were  sailors,  by  the  look  of  them— but  not  ordinary 
seamen— and  like  enough  for  twins  in  manner  and  appearance:  both  were 
short  and  heavy,  red-nosed,  squint-eyed,  and  black-whiskered,  and  wore  their 
natural  hair;  both  were  dressed  in  black  breeches  and  coats,  and  sported 
twin-peaked  hats  of  the  same  color.  Each  wore  a  brace  of  pistols  at  his  right, 
stuck  down  through  his  sash,  and  a  cutlass  at  his  left,  and  carried  besides  a 
heavy  black  cane, 

"Thou'rt  my  guest  for  beer,  Captain  Scuny,"  growled  one 
"Nay,  Captain  Slye,"  growled  the  other,  "for  thou' it  mine;* 
With  that,  still  standing,  they  both  commenced  to  bang  their  sticks  upon 
a  table  for  service.  "Beerl"  one  cried,  and  "Beer!"  cried  the  other,  and  they 
glowered,  scowled,  and  grumbled  when  their  cries  brought  no  response. 
So  fearsome  was  their  aspect,  and  fierce  their  manner,  Ebenezer  decided 
they  were  pirate  captains,  but  he  had  not  the  courage  to  8ce  the  room. 
"Beer/"  they  called  again,  and  again  smote  the  table  with  their  sticks  to 
no  avail  Ebenezer  buried  himself  in  his  notebook,  spread  out  before  him 
on  the  table,  and  prayed  they'd  take  no  notice  of  his  presence.  He  knew 
well,  from  the  History  of  the  Buccaneer*,  that  pirates  were  moved  to 
violence  by  the  merest  trifles;  the  simple  fact  of  one's  presence  or  the  cut 
of  one's  wig,  if  their  mood  was  delicate,  could  provoke  them  to  murder.  He 
damned  the  serving  girl  for  her  absence. 

"  Tis  my  suspicion,  Captain  Slye,"  one  of  them  said,  "that  we  must  serve 
ourselves  or  seek  our  man  with  dry  throats." 

"Then  let  us  draw  our  beer  and  have  done  with't,  Captain  Scurry,"  re- 
plied the  other.  'The  rascal  can't  be  far  away,  1  shall  d»w  two  steins,  and 
haply  he'll  come  in  ere  we've  drunk  'em  off," 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  185  ] 

"Haply,  haply/'  the  first  allowed.  "But  'tis  I  shall  draw  the  steins,  for 
thou'rt  my  guest." 

"The  devil  on7t!"  cried  the  second.  "  'Twas  I  spake  first,  and  thou'rt  my 
guest,  God  damn  ye!" 

"I'll  see  thee  first  in  Hell,"  said  Number  One.  "The  treat  is  mine." 

"Mine!"  said  Number  Two,  more  threateningly. 

"Thine  in  a  pig's  arse!" 

"I  shall  draw  thy  beer,  Captain  Slye,"  said  Number  Two,  fetching  out  a 
pistol,  "or  draw  thy  blood." 

"And  I  thine,"  said  Number  One,  doing  likewise,  "else  thou'rt  a  banquet 
for  the  worms." 

"Gentlemen,  gentlemen!"  Ebenezer  cried.  "In  Heav'n's  name  hold  thy 
fire!" 

Instantly  he  regretted  his  words.  The  two  men  turned  to  glare  at  him, 
still  pointing  pistols  at  each  other,  and  their  expressions  grew  so  menacing 
that  Ebenezer  trembled. 

"  Tis  none  of  my  affair,"  he  said  hastily,  for  they  began  moving  toward 
him.  "Not  the  least  of  my  affair,  I  grant  that.  What  I  meant  to  say  was, 
'twould  be  an  honor  and  a  pleasure  to  me  to  buy  for  both  of  you,  and  draw 
as  well,  if  you'll  but  show  me  how.  Nay,  no  matter,  I'll  wager  I  can  do't 
right  off,  with  no  instruction,,  for  many's  the  time  in  Locket's  I've  seen  it 
done.  Aye,"  he  went  on,  backing  away  from  them,  "there's  naught  of  skill 
or  secret  to't  but  this,  to  edge  the  glass  against  the  tap  if  the  keg  be  wild  and 
let  the  beer  slide  gently  in;  or  be't  flat,  allow  the  stream  some  space  to  fall 
ere't  fill  the  glass,  that  striking  harder  'twill  foam  the  more " 

"Cease!"  commanded  Number  One,  and  fetched  the  table  such  a  clap 
of  the  cane  that  Ebenezer's  notebook  jumped.  "I'God,  Captain  Slye,  did 
e'er  ye  hear  such  claptrap?" 

"Nor  such  impertinence,  Captain  Scurry/'  answered  the  other,  "that  not 
content  to  meddle  in  our  business,  the  knave  would  have't  all  his  own." 

"Nay,  gentlemen,  you  mistake  me!"  Ebenezer  cried. 

"Prithee  close  thy  mouth  and  sit,"  said  Captain  Scurry,  pointing  with  his 
stick  to  the  poet's  chair.  Then  to  his  companion  he  declared,  "Ye  must 
excuse  me  while  I  put  a  ball  'twixt  this  ninny's  eyes." 

"Twill  be  my  pleasure,"  the  other  replied,  "and  then  we'll  drisk  in 
peace."  Both  pistols  now  were  aimed  at  Ebenezer. 

"No  guest  of  mine  shall  stoop  to  such  mean  trifles,"  said  the  first.  Ebene- 
zer, standing  behind  his  chair,  looked  again  to  the  door  through  which 
Burlingaine  and  the  serving  maid  had  passed. 


[  186  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"My  sentiments  exactly/'  growled  Captain  Slyc^  "but  pray  recall  who's 
host,  or  'tis  two  pistols  I  shall  fire/' 

"  Tore  God,  good  Captains!"  Ebenezer  croaked,  but  legs  and  sphincters 
both  betrayed  him;  unable  to  say  on,  he  sank  with  wondrous  odor  to  his 
knees  and  buried  his  face  in  the  seat  of  his  chair-  At  that  instant  the  rear 
door  opened. 

"Stay,  here's  the  barmaidr  cried  Captain  Scurry.  "Fetch  me  two  beeis, 
lass,  while  I  jettison  this  stinkard!" 

"Beers  be  damnedl"  roared  Captain  Slye,  who  had  a  view  of  the  en- 
trance door.  "Yonder  goes  our  Laureate,  I  swear,  along  the  street!" 

"I'faith  let's  at  him,  then/'  said  the  other,  "ere  he  onoe  more  slips  his 
mooring!" 

Turning  their  backs  on  bear  and  poet  alike  they  hurried  out  to  the  street, 
from  which  came  shortly  the  sound  of  pistols  and  a  retreating  clamor  of 
curses.  But  Ebenezer  heard  them  not,  for  at  mention  of  their  quarry  he 
swooned  dead  away  upon  the  tavern  flags* 


9:    FURTHER  SEA-POETRY,  COMPOSED  IN  THE  STABLES 
OF  THE  KING  Q>  THE  SEAS 


WHEN   HE   REGAINED   HIS   SENSES   EBENEZER    FOUND   HIMSELF   IN   THE 

stables  of  the  King  o'  the  Seas,  lying  in  the  hay;  his  friend  Burlingame, 
dressed  in  Scotch  cloth,  squatted  at  his  hip  and  fanned  his  face  with  the 
double-entry  ledger. 

"I  was  obliged  to  fetch  you  outside/'  said  Heniy  with  a  smile,  "else  you'd 
have  driven  away  the  clients/" 

"A  pox  upon  the  clients!"  the  poet  said  weakly.  "Twas  a  pair  of  their 
clients  brought  me  to  this  pass!" 

"Are  you  your  own  man  now,  or  shall  I  fan  thcc  farther?" 

"No  farther,  prithee,  at  least  from  where  you  stand,  or  I'll  succumb  en- 
tirely." He  moved  to  sit  up,  made  a  sour  face,  and  lay  back  with  a  sigh, 

"The  fault  is  mine,  Eben;  had  I  known  aught  of  your  urgency  I'd  not 
have  lingered  such  a  time  in  yonder  privy.  How  is*t  you  did  not  use  this  hay 
instead?  Tis  no  mean  second." 

"I  cannot  make  light  off  Ebenezer  declared  'The  white  you  sported 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  187  ] 

with  the  wench,  two  pirate  captains  had  like  to  put  a  ball  betwixt  my  eyes, 
for  no  more  cause  than  that  I  ventured  to  settle  their  quarrel!" 

"Pirate  captains!" 

"Aye,  I'm  certain  oft,"  Ebenezer  insisted.  Tve  read  enough  in 
Esquemeling  to  know  a  pirate  when  I  see  one:  ferocious  fellows  as  like  as 
twins;  they  were  dressed  all  in  black,  with  black  beards  and  walking  sticks." 

"Why  did  you  not  declare  your  name  and  office?"  Burlingame  asked. 
44  'Tis  not  likely  they'd  dare  molest  you  then." 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head.  "I  thank  Heav'n  I  did  not,  for  else  my  life  had 
ended  on  the  spot.  Twas  the  Laureate  they  sought,  Henry,  to  kill  and 
murther  him!" 

"Nay!  But  why?" 

"The  Lord  alone  knows  why;  yet  I  owe  my  life  solely  to  some  poor  wight, 
that  walking  past  the  window  they  took  for  me  and  gave  him  chase.  Past 
that  I  know  naught.  Pray  God  they  missed  him  and  are  gone  for  good!*' 

"Belike  they  are,"  Burlingame  said.  "Pirates,  you  say!  Well,  'tis  not  im- 
possible, after  all But  say,  thou'rt  all  beshit  and  must  be  scrubbed." 

Ebenezer  groaned.  "Ignominy!  How  waddle  to  the  wharf  in  this  condi- 
tion, to  fetch  clean  breeches?" 

"Marry,  I  said  naught  o'  waddling,  sir,"  said  Burlingame,  in  the  tones  of 
a  country  servant.  "Only  fetch  off  thy  drawers  and  breeches  now,  that  me 
little  Dolly  maught  clean  'em  out,  and  I  shall  bring  ye  fresh  'uns." 

"Dolly?" 

"Aye,  Joan  Freckles  yonder  in  the  King  o'  the  Seas." 

Ebenezer  blushed.  "And  yet  she  is  a  woman,  for  all  her  harlotry,  and  I 
the  Laureate  of  Maryland!  I  cannot  have  her  hear  oft." 

"Hear  oft!"  Burlingame  laughed.  "You've  near  suffocated  her  already! 
Who  was  it  found  you  on  the  floor,  d'ye  think,  and  helped  me  fetch  you 
hither?  Off  with  'em  now,  Master  Laureate,  and  spare  me  thy  modesty. 
'Twas  a  woman  wiped  thy  bum  at  birth  and  another  shall  in  dotage:  what 
matter  if  one  do't  in  between?"  And  Ebenezer  having  undone  his  buttons 
with  reluctance,  his  friend  made  bold  to  give  a  mighty  jerk,  and  the  poet 
stood  exposed* 

"La  now/'  cEuickled  Burlingame.  "Thou'rt  fairly  made,  if  somewhat 
fouled." 

"I  die  of  shame  and  cannot  even  cover  myself  for  filth,"  the  poet  com- 
plained. "Do  make  haste,  Henry,  ere  someone  find  me  thus!" 

"1  shall,  for  be't  man  or  maid  you'd  not  stay  virgin  long,  I  swear,  thou'rt 
that  fetching/'  He  laughed  again  at  Ebenezer's  misery  and  gathered  up 


[  l88  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

the  soiled  garments.  "Adieu,  now:  thy  servant  will  return  anon,  if  the 
pirates  do  not  get  him.  Make  shift  to  clean  your  self  in  the  meantime. 

"But  prithee,  how?" 

Burlingame  shrugged.  "Only  look  about,  good  sir.  A  clever  man  is  never 
lost  for  long."  And  off  he  went  across  the  yard  to  the  rear  of  the  King  o' 
the  Seas,  calling  for  Dolly  to  come  get  his  prize. 

Ebenezer  at  cJnce  looked  about  him  for  some  means  to  remedy  his  un- 
happy condition.  Straw  he  rejected  at  once,  though  there  was  enough  and 
to  spare  of  it  in  the  stable:  it  could  not  even  be  clenched  in  the  hand  with 
comfort.  Next  he  considered  his  fine  holland  handkerchief  and  remem- 
bered that  it  was  in  his  breeches  pocket 

"  Tis  as  well,"  he  judged  on  second  thought,  "for  it  hath  a  murtherous 
row  of  great  French  buttons." 

Nor  could  he  sacrifice  his  coat,  shirt,  or  stockings,  for  he  lacked  on  the 
one  hand  clothes  enough  to  throw  away,  and  on  the  other  courage  enough 
to  give  the  barmaid  further  laundry,  "A  clever  man  is  never  lost  for  long," 
he  repeated  to  himself,  and  regarding  next  the  tail  of  a  great  bay  gelding 
in  a  stall  behind  him,  rejected  it  on  the  grounds  that  its  altitude  and  posi- 
tion rendered  it  at  once  inaccessible  and  dangerous.  "What  doth  this  teach 
us,"  he  reflected  with  pursed  lips,  "if  not  that  one  man's  wit  is  poor  indeed? 
Fools  and  wild  beasts  live  by  mother  wit  and  learn  from  experience;  the 
wise  man  learns  from  the  wits  and  lives  of  others.  Marry,  is't  for  naught ! 
spent  two  years  at  Cambridge,  and  three  times  two  with  Henry  in  my 
father's  summerhouse?  If  native  wit  can't  save  me,  then  education  shall!" 

Accordingly  he  searched  his  education  for  succor,  beginning  with  his 
memory  of  history.  "Why  should  men  prize  the  records  of  the  past,"  he 
asked,  "save  as  lessons  for  the  present?  Twene  an  idle  pastime  else,"  Yet 
though  he  was  no  stranger  to  Herodotus,  Thucydides,  Polybius,  Suetonius, 
Sallust,  and  other  chroniclers  ancient  and  modern,  he  couW  recall  in  them 
no  precedent  for  his  present  plight,  and  thus  no  counsel,  and  had  at  length 
to  give  over  the  attempt u  Tis  clear,"  he  concluded,  "that  History  teacheth 
not  a  man,  but  mankind;  her  muse's  pupil  is  the  body  politic  or  its  leaders. 
Nay,  more,"  he  reasoned  further,  shivering  a  bit  in  the  breeze  off  the 
harbor,  "the  eyes  of  Clio  are  like  the  eyes  of  snakes,  that  can  see  naught  but 
motion:  she  marks  the  rise  and  fall  of  nations,  but  of  things  immutable- 
eternal  verities  and  timeless  problems— she  rightly  takes  no  notice,  for  fear 
of  poaching  on  Philosophy's  preserve/* 

Next,  therefore,  he  summoned  to  mind  as  much  as  ever  he  could  of 
Aristotle,  Epicurus,  Zeno,  Augustine*  Thomas  Aquinas,  and  the  *est>  not 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  189  ] 

forgetting  his  Platonfcal  professors  and  their  one-time  friend  Descartes;  but 
though  they'd  no  end  of  interest  in  whether  his  plight  was  real  or  fancied, 
and  whether  it  merited  concern  sub  specie  aeternitatis,  and  whether  his 
future  action  with  regard  to  it  was  already  determined  or  entirely  in  his 
hands,  yet  none  advanced  specific  counsel.  "Can  it  be  they  all  shat  syllo- 
gisms, that  have  nor  stench  nor  stain/'  he  wondered,  "and  naught  besides? 
Or  is't  that  no  fear  travels  past  their  Reason,  to  ruin  their  breeches  withal?" 
The  truth  of  the  matter  was,  he  decided,  peering  across  the  court  in  vain  for 
Henry,  that  philosophy  dealt  with  generalities,  categories,  and  abstractions 
alone,  like  More's  eternal  spissitude,  and  spoke  of  personal  problems  only 
insofar  as  they  illustrated  general  ones;  in  any  case,  to  the  best  of  his 
recollection  it  held  no  answer  for  such  homely,  practical  predicaments  as 
his  own. 

He  did  not  even  consider  physics,  astronomy,  and  the  other  areas  of 
natural  philosophy,  for  the  same  reason;  nor  did  he  crack  his  memory  on 
the  plastic  arts,  for  he  knew  full  well  no  Phidias  or  Michelangelo  would 
deign  to  immortalize  a  state  like  his,  whatever  their  attraction  for  human 
misery.  No,  he  resolved  at  last,  it  was  to  literature  he  must  turn  for  help, 
and  should  have  sooner,  for  literature  alone  of  all  the  arts  and  sciences  took 
as  her  province  the  entire  range  of  man's  experience  and  behavior— from 
cradle  to  grave  and  beyond,  from  emperor  to  hedge-whore,  from  the  burn- 
ing of  cities  to  the  breaking  of  wind— and  human  problems  of  every 
magnitude:  in  literature  alone  might  one  find  catalogued  with  equal  care 
the  ancestors  of  Noah,  the  ships  of  the  Achaians 

"And  the  bum-swipes  of  Garg^ntual"  he  exclaimed  aloud.  "How  is't  I  . 
did  not  think  of  them  till  now?"  He  reviewed  with  joy  that  chapter  out  of 
Rabelais  wherein  the  young  Gargantua  tries  his  hand,  as  it  were,  at  sundry 
swabs  and  wipers— not  in  desperation,  to  be  sure,  but  in  a  spirit  of  pure 
empiricism,  to  discover  the  noblest  for  good  and  all— and  awards  the  prize 
at  last  to  the  neck  of  a  live  white  goose;  but  hens  and  guineas  though  there 
were  a-plenty  in  the  yard  around  the  stable,  not  a  goose  could  Ebenezer 
spy.  "Nor  were't  fit,"  he  decided  a  moment  later,  somewhat  crestfallen, 
"save  in  a  comic  or  satiric  book,  to  use  a  silly  fowl  so  hardly,  that  anon  must 
perish  to  please  our  bellies.  Good  Rabelais  surely  meant  it  as  a  jest."  In  like 
manner,  though  with  steadily  mounting  consternation,  he  considered  what 
other  parallels  to  his  circumstances  he  could  remember  from  what  literature 
he  had  read,  and  rejected  each  in  turn  as  inapplicable  or  irrelevant.  Litera- 
ture too,  he  concluded  with  heavy  heart,  availed  him  not,  for  though  it 
afforded  one  a  certain  sophistication  about  life  and  a  release  from  one's 


[  190  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

single  mortal  destiny,  it  did  not,  except  accidentally,  afford  solutions  to 
practical  problems.  And  after  literature,  what  else  remained? 

He  recalled  John  McEvoy's  accusation  that  he  knew  nothing  of  the  en- 
tire great  real  world  and  the  actual  people  in  it.  What,  in  fact,  he  asked 
himself,  would  others  do  in  his  place,  who  did  know  the  great  real  world? 
But  of  such  knowledgeable  folk  he  knew  but  two  at  all  well— Burlingarne 
and  McEvoy— and  it  was  unthinkable  of  either  that  they  would  ever  be 
in  his  place.  Yet  knowledge  of  the  world,  he  quite  understood,  went  further 
than  personal  acquaintance:  how  fared  the  savage  hordes  and  heathen  peo- 
ples of  the  earth,  who  never  saw  a  proper  bum-swab?  The  Arabs  of  the 
desert,  who  had  no  forest  leaves  nor  any  paper?  Surely  they  contrived  a 
measure  of  cleanliness  in  some  wise,,  else  each  perforce  would  live  a  hermit 
and  the  race  die  out  in  a  single  generation.  But  of  all  the  customs  and 
exotic  practices  of  which  he'd  heard  from  Burlingame  or  read  in  his  youth- 
ful books  of  voyages  and  gravel,  only  one  could  he  remember  that  was  to 
the  point;  the  peasant  folk  of  India,  Burlingame  had  once  observed  to 
him,  ate  with  their  right  hands  only,  inasmuch  as  the  left  was  customarily 
used  for  personal  cleanliness. 

44  Tis  no  solution,  but  a  mere  postponement  of  my  difficulties,"  the  poet 
sighed,  "What  hope  hath  he  for  other  aid,  whom  wit  and  the  world  have 
both  betrayed?" 

He  started,  and  despite  the  discomfort  of  his  position,  glowed  with 
pleasure  when  he  recognized  the  couplet*  "Whate'er  my  straits,  I  still  am 
virgin  and  poet!  What  hope  hath  he  ,  ,  .  Would  Heav'n  I'd  ink  and  quill, 
to  pen  him  ere  he  cools!"  He  resolved  in  any  case  to  dog-ear  a  leaf  in  his 
notebook  as  a  reminder  to  set  down  the  couplet  later;  it  was  not  until  the 
volume  was  spread  open  in  his  hands,  and  he  was  leafing  through  its  empty 
pages,  that  he  saw  in  it  what  none  of  his  previous  efforts  had  led  him  to. 

"Tis  a  propitious  omen,  b'm'faith!"  said  he,  not  a  little  awed.  He 
regretted  having  torn  out  in  the  London  posthouse  those  sheets  in  the 
ledger  on  which  Ben  Bragg  had  kept  his  accounts,  not  only  because  his 
years  with  Peter  Paggen  had  soured  his  taste  for  the  world  of  debit  and 
credit,  but  also  because  he  remembered  how  scarce  was  paper  in  the 
provinces,  and  so  was  loath  to  waste  a  single  sheet*  Indeed,  so  very  reluctant 
was  he,  for  a  moment  he  seriously  considered  tearing  out  instead  what  few 
pages  he'd  already  rhymed  on:  his  Hymn  to  Chastity,  the  little  quatrain 
recalled  to  him  by  Burlingame,  and  his  preliminary  salute  to  the  ship 
Pow'don.  Only  the  utter  impropriety,  the  virtual  sacrilege  of  the  deed, 
restrained  his  hand  and  kd  him  at  length  to  use  two  fresh  and  virgin  sheets 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  191  ] 

—and  then  two  more—for  the  work,  which  completed  with  no  small  labor, 
owing  to  the  drying  effect  of  the  breeze,  he  turned  into  an  allegory  thus: 
the  unused  sheets  were  songs  unborn,  which  yet  had  power,  as  it  were  in 
utero,  to  cleanse  and  ennoble  him  who  would  in  time  deliver  them— in 
short,  the  story  of  his  career  to  date.  Or  they  were  token  of  his  double 
essence,  called  forth  too  late  to  prevent  his  shame  but  able  still  to  cleanse 
the  leavings  of  his  fear.  Or  again— but  his  pleasant  allegorizing  was  broken 
off  by  the  appearance,  from  the  rear  of  the  King  o'  the  Seas,  of  befreckled 
Dolly,  bringing  his  drawers  and  breeches  out  to  dry.  Despite  his  embarrass- 
ment he  craned  his  head  around  the  stable  entrance  and  inquired  after 
Burlingame,  who  had  by  this  time  been  absent  for  nearly  an  hour;  but  the 
woman  professed  to  know  nothing  of  his  whereabouts. 

"Yet  'twas  but  across  the  street  he  went!"  Ebenezer  protested. 

"I  know  naught  oft/'  Dolly  said  stubbornly,  and  turned  to  go. 

"Wait!"  the  poet  called 

"Well?" 

He  blushed.  "Tis  something  chill  out  here— might  you  fetch  me  a 
blanket  from  upstairs,  or  other  covering,  against  my  man's  return?" 

Dolly  shook  her  head.  "  Tis  not  a  service  of  the  house,  sir,  save  to  them 
as  stop  the  night.  Your  man  paid  me  a  shilling  for  the  breeches,  but  naught 
was  said  of  blankets." 

"Plague  take  thee!"  Ebenezer  cried,  in  his  wrath  almost  forgetting  to 
conceal  himself.  "Was  Midas  e'er  so  greedy  as  a  woman?  You'll  get  thy 
filthy  shilling  anon,  when  my  man  appears!" 

"No  penny,  no  paternoster"  the  girl  said  pertly.  "I  have  no  warrant 
he'll  appear." 

"Thy  master  shall  hear  of  this  impertinencel" 

She  shrugged,  Burlingame-like. 

"A  toddy,  then,  i'God,  or  coffee,  ere  I  take  ill!  'Sheart,  girl,  I  am " 

He  checked  himself,  remembering  the  pirate  captains.  "Tis  a  gentleman 
that  asks  you,  not  a  common  sailor!" 

"Were't  King  William  himself  he'd  have  not  a  sip  on  credit  at  lie  King 
o'  the  Seas." 

Ebenezer  gave  over  the  attempt,  "If  I  must  catch  my  death  in  this  foul 
stable/'  he  sighed,  "might  you  at  least  provide  me  ink  and  quill,  or  is  that 
too  no  service  of  the  house?" 

"Ink  and  quill  are  free  for  all  to  use,"  Dolly  allowed,  and  shortly  brought 
them  to  the  stable  door. 


t  192  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Ye  must  use  your  own  book  to  scribble  in,"  she  declared-  "Paper's  too 
dear  to  throw  away," 

"And  I  threatened  you  with  your  master!  Marry,  thou'rt  his  fortune!" 
Alone  again,  he  set  on  the  dog-eared  page  of  his  ledger  book  that 
aphoristic  couplet  which  had  so  aided  him,  and  would  have  tried  his  hand 
at  further  verses,  but  the  discomfort  of  his  situation  made  creation  impos- 
sible. The  passage  of  time  alarmed  him:  the  sun  passed  the  meridian  and 
began  its  fall  toward  the  west;  soon,  surely,  it  would  be  time  to  board  the 
shallop  which  was  to  feny  them  to  the  Poseidon,  and  still  there  was  no 
sign  of  Burlingame.  The  wind  changed  direction,  blew  more  directly  off 
the  harbor  and  into  the  stable,  and  chilled  the  poet  through.  At  length  he 
was  obliged  to  seek  shelter  in  an  empty  stall  nearby,  where  enough  fresh 
hay  was  piled  to  cover  his  legs  and  hips  when  he  sat  in  it*  Indeed,  after  his 
initial  distaste  he  found  himself  warm  and  comfortable  enough,  if  still  a 
trifle  apprehensive—  as  much  for  Burlingame's  welfare  as  for  his  own,  for  he 
readily  imagined  his  friend's  having  fallen  afoul  of  the  pirate  captains.  Re- 
solving to  cheer  himself  with  happier  thoughts  (and  at  the  same  time  fight 
against  the  drowsiness  that  his  relative  comfort  induced  at  once)  be  turned 
again  to  that  page  in  his  notebook  which  borer  the  Poseidon  quatrain.  And 
for  all  he'd  never  yet  laid  eyes  upon  that  vessel,  aftet  some  deliberation  he 
joined  to  the  first  quatrain  a  second,  which  called  her  frankly 

A  noble  Ship,  from  Deck  to  P«dte, 
Akin  to  those  that  Homers  Creeks 
Satfd  east  to  Troy  in  Day*  of  Yow, 


From  here  it  was  small  labor  to  extend  the  tribute  to  captain  and  crew 
as  well,  though  in  truth  he'd  met  no  seafaring  men  in  his  life  save 
Burlingame  and  the  fearsome  piiate  captains.  Giving  himself  wholly  to  the 
muse,  and  rejecting  quatrains  for  stanzas  of  a  length  befitting  the  «pfc»  he 
wrote  on: 

Our  Captain,  like  a  briny  God, 
Beside  the  Helm  did  pace  and  plod, 
And  shouted  Orders  at  the  Sty, 
Where  doughty  Seamen,  Mat-top  Aigfc, 
Unfurl'd  and  furl'd  our  migfity  Sob, 
To  catch  the  Winds  but  miss  the  Gal*  . 
O  noble,  $dty  Tritons  Race, 
Who  br<m  the  wild  Atlaatics  Fae* 
And  reckless  best  both  Wind  and  Tide: 
God  bless  th*e>  Ltd*,  fm  Albioos 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  193  ] 

In  a  kind  of  reverie  he  saw  himself  actually  aboard  the  Poseidon,  dry- 
breeched  and  warm,  his  gear  safely  stowed  below.  The  sky  was  brilliant. 
A  fresh  wind  from  the  east  raised  whitecaps  in  the  sparkling  ocean, 
threatened  to  lift  his  hat  and  the  hats  of  the  cordial  gentlemen  with  whom 
he  stood  in  converse  on  the  poop,  and  fanned  from  red  to  yellow  the  coals 
of  good  tobacco  in  their  pipes.  With  what  grace  did  the  crewmen  race  aloft 
to  make  sail!  To  what  a  chorus  did  the  anchor  rise  dripping  from  the  bottom 
of  the  sea  and  the  mighty  ship  make  way!  The  gentlemen  held  their  hats, 
peered  down  at  the  wave  of  foam  beneath  the  sprit  and  up  at  the  sea  birds 
circling  off  the  yards,  squinted  their  eyes  against  sun  and  spray,  and  laughed 
in  awe  at  the  scrambling  sailors.  Anon  a  steward  from  below  politely  made 
a  sign,  and  all  the  gay  company  retired  to  dinner  in  the  Captain's  quarters. 
Ebenezer  sat  at  that  worthy's  right,,  and  no  wit  was  sharper  than  his,  nor 
any  hunger.  But  what  a  feast  was  laid  before  them!  Dipping  his  quill  ag&in, 
he  wrote: 

Ye  ask,  What  eat  our  merry  Band 
En  Route  to  lovely  MARYLAND? 
I  answer:  Ne'er  were  such  Delights 
As  met  our  Sea~$harp'd  Appetites 
E'er  serv'd  to  Jove  and  Junos  Breed 
By  Vulcan  and  by  Ganymede. 

There  was  more  to  be  said,  but  so  sweeter  was  the  dream  than  its  articula- 
tion, and  so  thorough  his  fatigue,  he  scarce  could  muster  gumption  to 
Subscribe  the  usual  E.G.,  Gw*,  P*  &  V  of  M*  before  his  eyes  completely 
closed,  his  head  nodded  forward,  and  he  knew  no  more. 

It  seemed  but  a  moment  that  he  slept;  yet  when  roused  by  the  noise  of  a 
groom  leading  a  horse  into  the  stable,  he  observed  with  alarm  that  the  sun 
was  well  along  in  the  western  sky:  the  square  of  light  from  the  doorway 
stretched  almost  to  where  he  sat  in  the  straw.  He  leaped  up,  remembered 
his  semi-nudity,  and  snatched  a  double  handful  of  straw  to  cover  himself. 

"The  jakes  is  there  across  the  yard,  sir,"  the  boy  said,  not  visibly  sur- 
prised, "though  I  grant  'tis  little  sweeter  than  this  stable/' 

"Nay,  you  mistake  me,  lad But  no  matter.  See  you  those  drawers  and 

breeches  on  yonder  line?  'Twill  be  a  great  service  to  me  if  you  will  feel  of 
them,  whether  they  be  dry,  and  if  so,  fetch  them  hither  with  all  haste,  for  I 
must  catch  a  ferry  to  the  Downs/' 

The  young  man  did  as  instructed,  and  soon  Ebenezer  was  able  to  leave 
the  stable  behind  him  at  last  and  run  with  all  possible  speed  to  the  wharf, 
searching  as  he  ran  for  Burlingame  or  the  two  pirate  captains  into  whose 


[  194  3  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

clutches  he  feared  his  friend  had  fallen.  When  he  reached  the  wharf, 
breathless,  he  found  to  his  dismay  that  the  shallop  was  already  gone  and 
his  trunk  with  it,  though  Burlingame's  remained  behind  on  the  pier  exactly 
where  it  had  been  placed  that  morning.  His  heart  sank. 

An  old  mariner  sat  nearby  on  a  coil  of  rope  belonging  to  the  shallop, 
smoking  a  long  clay  pipe* 

"I  say,  sir,  when  did  the  shallop  sail?" 

"Not  half  an  hour  past/'  the  old  man  said,  not  troubling  to  turn  his 
eyes,  "Ye  can  spy  her  yet/' 

"Was  there  a  short  fellow  among  the  passengers*  that  wore"— he  was 
ready  to  describe  Burlingame's  port-purple  coat,  but  remembered  in  time 
his  friend's  disguise— "that  called  himself  Bertrand  Burton,  a  servant  of 
mine?" 

"None  that  I  saw.  No  servants  at  all,  that  I  saw/* 

"But  why  did  you  leave  this  trunk  ashore  and  freight  its  neighbor?** 
Ebenezer  demanded.  "They  were  to  go  together  to  the  Poseidon/* 

"  Twas  none  o'  my  doing,"  said  the  mariner  with  g  shrug,  "Mr,  Cooke 
took  his  with  him  when  he  sailed;  the  other  man  sails  tonight  on  a  different 
ship/' 

"Mr.  Cooke!"  cried  Ebeneser.  He  was  about  to  protest  that  he  himself 
was  Ebenezer  Cooke,  Laureate  of  Maryland,  but  thought  better  of  it:  in 
the  first  place,  the  pirates  might  still  be  searching  for  him— the  old  mariner, 
for  all  he  knew,  might  be  in  their  mysterious  employ;  Cooke,  moreover, 
was  a  surname  by  no  means  rare,  and  the  whole  thing  could  well  be  no 
more  than  a  temporary  confusion. 

"Yet,  surely/'  he  ended  by  saying,  "the  man  was  not  Ei*nwr  Cooke, 
Laureate  of  Maryland?" 

But  the  old  man  nodded  "Twas  that  same  gentleman,  the  poetical 
wight" 

"Ffaithr 

"He  wore  black  breeches  like  your  own,"  the  sailor  volunteered,  "and  a 
purple  coat— none  o'  the  cleanest,  for  all  his  lofty  post" 

"Burlingamel"  the  poet  gasped, 

"Nay,  CooSe  it  was.  A  sort  of  poet,  crossing  on  the  Po&idon" 

But  for  what  cause  would  his  friend  assume  his  name  and  leave  him 
stranded  in  the  stable  of  the  King  o'  the  Seas?  Ebeneaer  could  not 
fathom  it 

'Then  prithee,"  he  asked,  with  some  difficulty  and  no  little  apprehension, 
"who  might  that  second  gentleman  be^  the  owner  of  this  tiunk  here,  that 
sails  tonight  on  a  different  vessel?" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  195  ] 

The  old  man  sucked  his  pipe.  "He'd  not  the  dress  of  a  gentleman/'  he 
declared  at  length,  "nor  yet  a  gentleman's  face,  but  rather  a  brined  and 
weathered  look,  like  any  sailor.  The  others  called  him  Captain,  and  he  them 
likewise." 

Ebenezer  paled.  "Not  Captain  Slye?"  he  asked  fearfully. 
"Aye,  now  you  mention  it,"  the  old  man  said,  "there  was  a  Captain  Slye 
among  their  number." 
"And  Scurry  too?" 

"Aye,  Slye  and  Scurry  they  were,  as  like  as  twins.  They  and  the  third 
came  seeking  the  poetical  gentleman  not  five  full  minutes  after  he'd  sailed, 
as  you've  come  seeking  them.  But  they  went  no  farther  than  the  nearest 
house  for  rum,  where  'tis  likely  you'll  find  'em  yet." 

In  spite  of  himself  Ebenezer  cried  "Heav'n  forfend!"  and  glanced  with 
terror  across  the  street. 

The  old  man  shrugged  again  and  spat  into  the  harbor.  "Haply  there's 
company  more  proper  than  sailors  ashore,"  he  allowed,  "but  none  more 

merry Out  on't!"  he  interrupted  himself.  "You've  but  to  read  the  name 

from  off  his  baggage  there,  where  he  wrote  it  not  ten  minutes  past  I've  not 
the  gift  of  letters  myself,  else  I  had  thought  oft  ere  now." 

Ebenezer  examined  his  friend's  trunk  at  once  and  found  on  one  handle 
a  bit  of  lettered  pasteboard:  C^*  /"*  Coode. 

"Nay!"  His  legs  betrayed  him;  he  was  obliged  to  sit  on  the  trunk  or  dis- 
grace anew  his  fresh-dried  drawers.  "Tell  me  not  'twas  Black  John  Coode!" 
"Black  or  white,  John  or  Jim,  'twas  Coode,"  the  other  affirmed:  "Captain 
Slye,  Captain  Scurry,  and  Captain  Coode.  They're  yonder  in  the  King  o' 
the  Seas." 

Suddenly  Ebenezer  understood  all,  though  his  understanding  little 
calmed  his  fear:  Burlingame,  after  learning  from  Ebenezer  in  the  stable 
about  the  pirates  and  their  quarry,  had  spied  them  and  perhaps  Coode  as 
well  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  tavern  and  realized  that  a  plot  was  afoot 
against  his  charge— who  as  Laureate  to  Lord  Baltimore  was  after  all  a  potent, 
even  a  potentially  deadly  enemy  to  their  seditious  schemes,  for  the  exposure 
of  which  few  better  tools  existed  than  the  knife-edged  Hudibrastic.  What 
nobler  course,  then,  or  more  in  the  spirit  of  faithful  guardianship,  than  to 
change  to  his  original  clothes  again,  declare  himself  the  Laureate  (since, 
clearly,  they  knew  not  their  victim's  face),  and  throw  them  off  the  scent 
by  apparently  embarking,  trunk  and  all,  for  the  Poseidon?  It  was  a  stratagem 
worthy  of  both  the  courage  and  the  resourcefulness  of  his  friend:  an 
adventure  equal  to  his  escape  from  the  pirate  Thomas  Pound  or  his 
interception  of  the  letters  from  Benjamin  RicaudI  Moreover,  it  had  been 


[  196  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

accomplished  at  the  risk  of  his  own  possessions,  which  Coode  seemed  now 
to  have  appropriated.  The  poet's  heart  wanned:  the  solicitude,  the  brave 
self-abnegation  of  his  friend  brought  moisture  to  his  eyes. 

"And  to  think/'  thought  he^  "I  was  the  while  misdoubting  him  from  the 
safety  of  my  horse  stalll" 

Very  well,  he  resolved:  he  would  show  himself  worthy  of  such  high  re- 
gard. "How  is't  you  gave  this  Coode  leave  to  claim  my  trunk?"  he 
demanded  of  the  old  seafarer,  who  had  returned  to  his  pipe  and  meditations. 

"Thy  trunk,  sir?" 

"My  trunk!  Are  you  blind  as  well  as  unlettered,  that  you  failed  to  see  the 
Laureate  and  me  this  morning  when  we  had  our  trunks  put  down  from  the 
London  carriage?" 

"Marry,  I  know  naught  oft,"  the  old  man  declared.  "Tis  my  Joseph 
sails  the  shallop,  my  son  Joseph,  and  I  but  mind  the  berth  til!  he  returns." 

"And  leave  your  client's  trunks  to  any  rogue  that  claims  them?  A  proper 
ferryman  you  are,  and  your  Joseph,  b'm'faithl  This  wretch  John  Coode 
deigns  not  even  to  counterfeit,  but  with  your  aid  robs  openly  in  broad 
daylight,  and  by's  own  name!  I'll  have  the  sheriff!" 

"Nay,  prithee,  sir!"  the  other  cried,  "My  boy  knew  naught  oft,  I  swear, 
nor  did  I  think  to  aid  a  robber!  The  meny  captains  strode  up  bold  as 
brass,  sir,  and  asked  for  the  poetical  gentleman,  and  said  This  chest  is 
Captain  Coode's  and  must  be  on  the  Morphides,  by  sundown,  for  the  Isle 
of  Man/" 

"And  stopped  thy  questions  with  a  guinea,  I  doubt  not?" 

'Two  bob,"  the  sailor  answered  humbly.  "How  might  I  know  the  baggage 
wasn't  his?" 

"Tis  compounding  the  felony  in  any  case,"  Ebeaezer  declared  "Is't 
worth  two  bob  to  breathe  your  last  in  prison?" 

By  dint  of  this  and  similar  threats  Ebenezer  soon  pemiaded  the  old  sailor 
of  his  error.  "Yet  how  may  I  know  'tis  thine,  sir,"  he  nevertheless  inquired, 
"now  youVe  raised  the  question?  Haply  'tis  thou'rt  the  thie^  and  not 
Captain  Coode,  and  who  shall  save  me  then  from  jail?" 

'The  trunk  is  mine  in  trust  alonV  the  poet  replied,  "to  see  it  safely  to 
my  master," 

Thou'rt  a  servingman,  and  chide  me  so?"  The  sailor  set  his  whiskered 
jaw.  "Who  might  your  master  b^  that  dresses  Ws  maa  like  any  St  Paul's 
fop?"  7 

Ebenezer  ignored  the  slur,  "He  is  that  same  poetical  gentleman  who 
took  the  first  trunk  with  him— Ebenezer  Coofce,  the  Lauieate  of  MaiylaacL 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  197  ] 

And  'twill  go  hard  for  you  and  your  loutish  Joseph  should  he  speak  of  this 
nonsense  in  the  right  places/' 

"I'  God,  then  take  the  accursed  box  for  all  of  me!"  the  poor  man  cried, 
and  promised  to  send  trunk  and  servant  together  to  the  Poseidon  as  soon 
as  the  shallop  returned.  "Yet  prithee  show  me  just  one  proof  or  token  of 
your  post/'  he  begged,  "to  ease  my  heart:  for  how  shall  I  fare  at  the  hands 
of  the  three  captains,  if  thou'rt  the  thief  and  they  the  owners?" 

"Never  fear/'  Ebenezer  said.  "I  shall  show  you  proof  enough  in  two 
minutes:  page  upon  page  of  the  Laureate's  writing."  He  had  just  remem- 
bered, with  a  mixture  of  concern  and  relief,  that  his  notebook  was  yet  in 
the  horse  stall.  But  the  old  man  shook  his  head.  "Were't  branded  on  your 
arse  in  crimson  letters  or  graven  like  the  Tables  of  the  Law  I'd  not  make 
ftog  nor  dog  oft." 

"Try  my  patience  no  more,  old  man!"  the  poet  warned.  "The  veriest 
numskull  knows  a  poem  by  the  look  oft,  whether  he  grasp  the  sense  or  no. 
I'll  show  you  verses  fit  for  the  ears  of  the  gods,  and  there's  an  end  to  your 
caviling!"  Charging  the  mariner  as  sternly  as  he  could  to  safeguard 
Burlingame's  trunk  and  to  ready  the  shallop,  should  it  return,  for  instant 
sailing,  he  made  his  way  in  a  great  arc  across  the  street,  giving  a  wide  berth 
to  the  entrance  of  the  King  o'  the  Seas,  traversed  again  the  alleyway  leading 
to  the  back  yard  of  the  ordinary,  and  with  pounding  heart  re-entered  the 
familiar  stable,  expecting  at  any  moment  to  meet  tie  horrendous  trio  of 
captains.  He  hastened  to  the  stall  in  which  he'd  composed  his  nautical 
verses:  there  in  the  straw,  where  in  embarrassment  and  haste  he'd  left  it, 
was  the  precious  ledger.  He  snatched  it  up.  Had  that  stableboy,  perhaps, 
defaced  it,  or  filched  a  sheaf  of  pages?  No,  it  was  intact,  and  in  good  order. 

"And  reckless  best  both  Wind  and  Tide"  he  quoted  from  the  page,  and 
sighed  with  pleasure  at  his  own  artistry.  "It  hath  the  very  sound  of  toss  and 
tempest!" 

But  there  was  no  time  then  for  such  delights;  the  shallop  might  be  moor- 
ing at  that  very  moment,  and  the  villains  in  the  tavern  would  not  drink 
rum  forever.  With  all  possible  speed  he  scanned  the  remaining  stanza  of 
the  morning— those  seven  or  eight  couplets  describing  the  shipboard  feast. 
He  sighed  again,,  tucked  the  book  under  his  arm,  and  hurried  out  of  the 
stable  into  the  courtyard. 

"Stay,  Master  Poet,  or  thou'rt  dead,"  said  a  voice  behind  him,  and  he 
whirled  about  to  face  a  brace  of  black-garbed  fiends  from  Hell,  each  with 
his  left  hand  leaning  on  an  ebon  cane  and  his  right  aiming  a  pistol  at  the 
poet's  chest. 

"Doubly  dead,"  the  other  added. 


[  198  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTO* 

Ebenezer  could  not  speak. 

''Shall  I  send  a  ball  through  his  Romish  heart,  Captain  Scurry,  and  spare 
ye  the  powder?" 

"Nay,  thankee,  Captain  Stye,"  replied  the  other,  "Twas  Captain 
Coode's  desire  to  see  whatever  queer  fish  might  strike  the  bait,  ere  we  have 
his  gullet.  But  the  pleasure's  thine  when  that  hour  comes," 

'Tour  servant,  Captain  Scurry,"  said  Captain  Siye*  "Inside  with  ye* 
Cooke,  or  my  ball's  in  thy  belly," 

But  Ebenezer  could  not  move.  At  length,  belting  their  pistols  as  un- 
necessary, his  fearsome  escorts  took  each  an  elbow  and  propelled  him,  half 
a-swoon,  to  the  rear  door  of  the  ordinary. 

"For  God's  sake  spare  mel"  he  croaked,  his  eyes  shut  fast 

"  'Tis  not  that  gentleman  can  do't>"  said  one  of  his  captors.  *The  man 
we're  fetching  ye  to  is  the  man  to  dicker  with." 

They  entered  into  a  kind  of  pantry  or  storage  room*  and  one  of  his 
captors— the  one  called  Stye— went  ahead  to  open  another  door,  which  led 
into  the  steamy  kitchen  of  the  King  o*  the  Seas. 

"Ahoy,  John  Coode!"  he  bellowed.  "We've  caught  ye  your  poet!" 

Ebenezer  then  was  given  such  a  push  from  behind  that  he  slipped  on 
the  greasy  tiles  and  fell  asprawl  beside  a  round  table  in  the  center  of  the 
room,  directly  at  the  feet  of  the  man  who  sat  them.  Everyone  laughed: 
Captain  Scurry,  who  had  pushed  him;  Captain  Slye,  who  stood  nearby; 
some  woman  whom,  since  her  feet  dangled  just  before  his  eyes,  Ebenezer 
judged  to  be  sitting  in  Coode's  lap;  and  Coode  himself.  Tremblingly  the 
poet  looked  up  and  saw  that  the  woman  was  the  fickle  Dolly,  who  sat  with 
her  arms  about  the  archfiend's  neck. 

Then,  as  fearfully  as  though  expecting  Lucifer  himself,  he  turned  his 
eyes  to  John  Coode,  What  he  saw  was,  if  rather  less  horrendous,  not  a  whit 
less  astonishing:  the  smiling  face  of  Henry  Burlingame. 


10:    THE   LAUREATE   SUFFERS   LITERARY   CRITICISM 
AND  BOARDS  THE  POSEIDON 


His  friend's  smile  vanished.  He  pushed  the  barmaid  off  his  lap,  sprang 
scowling  to  his  feet,  and  pulled  Ebenezer  up  by  his  shirtfroat 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  199  ] 

"You  blockhead!"  he  said  angrily,  before  the  poet  could  say  more,  "Who 
gave  ye  leave  to  sneak  about  the  stables?  I  told  ye  to  scour  the  docks  for 
that  fool  poet!" 

Ebenezer  was  too  surprised  to  speak. 

''This  is  my  man  Henry  Cook,"  Burlingame  said  to  the  black  captains. 
"Can  ye  not  tell  a  poet  from  a  common  servant?" 

"Your  man?"  cried  Captain  Scurry.  "I'faith,  'tis  the  same  shitten  puppy 
was  annoying  us  this  morning— is't  not,  Captain  Slye?" 

"Aye  and  it  is,"  said  Captain  Slye.  "What's  more,  he  was  scribbling  in 
that  very  book  there,  that  ye  claim  is  the  poet's." 

Burlingame  turned  on  Ebenezer  again,  raising  his  hand.  "I've  a  mind 
to  box  thy  lazy  ears!  Idling  in  a  tavern  when  I  ordered  ye  to  the  docks! 
Small  wonder  the  Laureate  escaped  us!  How  came  ye  by  the  notebook?" 
he  demanded,  and  when  Ebenezer  (though  he  began  to  comprehend  that 
his  friend  was  protecting  him)  was  unable  to  think  of  a  reply,  added;  "I  sup- 
pose ye  found  it  among  our  man's  baggage- on  the  wharf  and  marked  it  a 
find  worth  drinking  to?" 

"Aye,"  Ebenezer  managed  to  say.  "That  is— aye." 

"Ah  God,  what  a  lout!"  Burlingame  de'clared  to  the  others.  "Every 
minute  at  the  bottle,  and  he  holds  his  rum  no  better  than  an  altar-boy.  I 
suppose  ye  took  ill  oft,  then"— he  sneered  at  Ebenezer— "and  puked  out 
your  belly  in  the  stable?" 

The  poet  nodded  and,  daring  finally  to  trust  his  voice,  he  asserted,  "I 
woke  but  an  hour  past  and  ran  to  the  wharf,  but  the  Laureate's  trunk  was 
gone.  Then  I  remembered  I'd  left  the  notebook  in  the  stable  and  came 
to  fetch  it." 

Burlingame  threw  up  his  hands  to  the  captains  as  in  despair.  "And  to 
you  this  wretch  hath  the  look  of  Maryland's  Laureate?  I  aim  surrounded 
by  fools!  Fetch  us  two  drams  and  something  to  eat,  Dolly,"  he  ordered, 
"and  all  of  you  begone  save  my  precious  addlepate  here.  I've  words  for 
him." 

Captain  Slye  and  Captain  Scurry  exited  crestfallen,  and  Dolly,  who  had 
attended  the  whole  scene  indifferently,  went  out  to  pour  the  drinks. 
Ebenezer  fairly  collapsed  into  a  chair  and  clutched  at  Burlingame's  coat 
sleeve. 

"Dear  God!"  he  whispered.  "What  is  this  all  about?  Why  is't  you  pose 
as  Coode,  and  why  leave  me  shivering  all  day  in  the  stable?" 
"Softly,"  Henry  warned,  looking  over  his  shoulder.  "  Tis  a  ticklish  spot 


[200]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

we're  in,  albeit  a  useful  one.  Have  faith  in  me:  I  shall  lay  it  open  plainly 
when  I  can." 

The  barmaid  returned  with  two  glasses  of  rum  and  a  plate  of  cold  veal. 
"Send  Slye  and  Scurry  to  the  wharf,"  he  directed  her,  "and  tell  them  I'll 
be  on  the  Morphides  by  sundown." 

"Can  you  trust  her?"  Ebenezer  asked  when  she  had  gone.  "Surely  she 
knows  thou'rt  not  John  Coode,  after  this  morning." 

Burlingame  smiled.  "She  knows  her  part.  Fall  to,  now,  and  Fll  tell  you 
yours." 

Ebenezer  did  as  advised— he'd  had  no  food  all  day— and  was  somewhat 
calmed  by  the  rum,  which,  however,  made  him  shudder.  Burlingame  peered 
through  a  crack  in  the  door  leading  into  the  main  hall  of  the  King  o'  the 
Seas,  and  apparently  satisfied  that  none  could  overhear,  explained  his  posi- 
tion thus: 

"Directly  I  left  you  this  morning  I  went  straightway  to  the  dock  to  fetch 
fresh  breeches,  pondering  all  the  while  what  you  had  told  me  of  the  two 
pirate  captains.  Twas  my  surmise  they  were  no  pirates,  the  more  for  that 
'twas  you  they  sought— what  use  would  a  pirate  have  for  a  poet?  Yet,  from 
your  picture  of  them,  their  manner  and  their  quest,  I  had  another  thought, 
no  less  alarming,  which  I  soon  saw  to  be  the  truth,  Your  two  black 
scoundrels  were  there  on  the  very  dock  where  stood  our  chests,  and  I  knew 
them  at  once  for  Slye  and  Scurry,  two  smugglers  that  have  worked  for 
Coode  before,  'Twas  clear  Coode  knew  of  your  appointment  and  meant 
you  no  good,  though  what  his  motives  were  I  could  but  guess;  'twas  clear 
as  well  your  hunters  did  not  know  their  quarry's  face  and  could  be  lightly 
gulled.  They  were  speaking  with  the  lad  that  sails  the  shallop;  I  made  bold 
to  crouch  behind  our  trunks  and  heard  the  ferryman  say  that  you  and  your 
companion  were  in  the  King  o'  the  Seas— happily  I'd  given  him  no  name. 
Slye  said  'twas  impossible,  inasmuch  as  but  a  short  time  since  they'd  been 
in  the  King  o'  the  Seas,  and  had  run  out  on  seeing  their  victim  in  the  street 
but  had  lost  him." 

"Aye,  just  so,"  Ebenezer  said.  "Tis  the  last  thing  I  recall.  But  whom 
they  spied  I  cannot  guess." 

"Nor  could  I,  Yet  the  ferryman  held  to  his  stoty,  and  at  length  Slye 
proposed  another  search  of  the  tavern.  But  Scurry  protested  'twas  time  to 
fetch  John  Coode  from  off  the  fleet/' 

"Coode  aboard  the  fleet!" 

"Aye,"  Burlingame  declared.  'This  and  other  things  they  said  gave  tne 
to  believe  that  Coode  hath  sailed  disguised  frpm  London  on  the  very  man- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  201  ] 

o'-war  with  the  Governor  and  his  company,  who  joined  the  fleet  this  morn- 
ing. No  doubt  he  fears  for  his  cause,  and  wished  to  see  first-hand  what 
favor  his  enemies  have  with  Nicholson.  Then,  I  gathered,  Slye  and  Scurry 
were  to  meet  him  in  the  Downs  and  fetch  him  to  their  own  ship,  which 
sails  tonight  for  the  Isle  of  Man  and  thence  to  Maryland." 

"I'God,  the  boldness  of  the  man!"  exclaimed  the  poet 

Burlingame  smiled.  "You  think  he's  bold?  Tis  no  long  voyage  from  Lon- 
don to  Plymouth." 

"But  under  Nicholson's  very  nose!  In  the  company  of  the  very  men  he'd 
driven  from  the  Province!" 

"Yet  as  I  crouched  this  while  behind  our  baggage,"  Burlingame  said, 

"an  even  bolder  notion  struck  me But  first  I  must  tell  you  one  other 

thing  I  heard.  Scurry  asked  Slye,  How  would  they  know  their  leader  in 
disguise,  when  they'd  seen  not  even  his  natural  face?  And  Slye  proposed 
they  use  a  kind  of  password  employed  by  Coode's  men  before  the  revolu- 
tion, to  discover  whether  a  third  party  was  one  of  their  number.  Now  it 
happened  I  knew  two  passwords  very  well  from  the  old  days  when  I'd 
feigned  to  be  a  rebel:  In  one  the  first  man  asks  his  confederate,  'How  doth 
your  friend  Jim  sit  his  mare  these  days?'  By  which  is  meant,  How  sure  is 
King  James's  tenure  on  the  throne?  The  second  then  replies,  'I  fear  me 
he'll  be  thrown;  he  wants  a  better  mare/  And  the  third  man,  if  he  be  privy 
to  the  game,  will  say,  'Haply  'tis  the  mare  wants  a  better  rider.'  The  other 
was  for  use  when  a  man  wished  to  make  himself  known  to  a  party  of 
strangers  as  a  rebel:  he  would  approach  them  on  the  street  or  in  a  tavern 
and  say  "Have  you  seen  my  friend,  that  wears  an  orange  cravat?'  That  is 
to  say,  the  speaker  is  a  friend  of  the  House  of  Orange.  One  of  the  party 
then  cries,  'Marry,  will  you  mark  the  man!'  which  is  a  pun  on  Queen 
Mary  and  King  William. 

"On  hearing  their  plans,"  Burlingame  went  on,  "I  resolved  at  once  to 
thwart  'em:  my  first  thought  was  for  you  and  me  to  pose  as  Slye  and  Scurry, 
fetch  Coode  from  off  the  man-o'-war,  and  in  some  wise  detain  him  till  we 
learned  his  plans  and  why  he  wanted  you." 

"  'Swounds!  Twould  never  have  succeeded!" 

"That  may  be,"  Burlingame  admitted.  "In  any  case,  though  I'd  learned 
that  Slye  and  Scurry  did  not  know  Coode,  it  did  not  follow  they  were 
strangers  to  him— indeed,  they  are  a  famous  pair  of  rascals.  For  that  reason 
I  decided  to  be  John  Coode  again,  as  once  before  on  Peregrine  Browne's 
ship.  I  stepped  around  the  trunks  and  inquired  after  my  friend  with  the 
orange  cravat" 


[202]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Ebenezer  expressed  his  astonishment  and  asked  whether,  considering 
that  Burlingame  wore  the  dress  of  a  servant  and  that  Coode  was  supposed 
to  be  aboard  the  man-o'-war,  the  move  were  not  for  all  its  daring  ill-advised. 
His  friend  replied  that  Coode  was  known  to  be  given  to  unusual  dress- 
priest's  robes,  minister's  frocks,  and  various  military  uniforms,  for  example 
—and  that  it  was  in  fact  quite  characteristic  of  him  to  appear  as  if  from 
nowhere  among  his  cohorts  and  disappear  similarly,  with  such  unexpected- 
ness that  not  a  few  of  the  more  credulous  believed  him  to  have  occult 
powers. 

"At  least  they  believed  me,"  he  said,  "once  they  had  composed  them- 
selves again,  and  I  gave  'em  small  chance  to  question.  I  feigned  displeasure 
at  their  tardiness,  and  fell  into  a  great  rage  when  they  said  the  Laureate  had 
slipped  their  halter.  By  the  most  discreet  interrogation  (for  'twas  necessary 
to  act  as  if  I  knew  more  than  they)  I  was  able  to  piece  together  an  odd 
tale,  which  still  I  cannot  fully  fathom:  Slye  and  Scurry  had  come  from 
London  with  some  wight  who  claimed  to  be  Ebenezer  Cooke;  on  orders 
from  Coode  they'd  posed  as  Maryland  planters  and  escorted  the  false 
Laureate  to  Plymouth,  where  I  fancy  they  meant  to  put  him  on  the 
Morphides  for  some  sinister  purpose— belike  they  thought  him  a  spy  of 
Baltimore's.  But  whoe'er  the  fellow  was  he  must  have  smelled  the  plot,  for 
he  slipped  their  clutches  sometime  this  morning. 

"Now,  think  not  I'd  forgotten  you,"  he  went  on;  "I  feared  you'd  find 
some  other  clothes  and  show  yourself  at  any  moment.  Therefore  I  led  Slye 
and  Scurry  to  a  tavern  up  the  street  for  rum  and  detained  them  as  long  as 
possible,  trying  to  hatch  a  plan  for  sending  you  a  message.  Every  few  min- 
utes I  looked  down  towards  the  wharf,  pretending  to  seek  a  servant  of 
mine,  and  when  at  last  I  saw  your  trunk  was  gone  I  guessed  you'd  gone 
alone  to  the  Poseidon.  Anon,  when  we  walked  this  way  agpin,  the  old  man 
at  the  wharf  confirmed  that  Eben  Cooke  had  sailed  off  in  the  shallop  with 
his  trunk." 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head  in  wonder.  "But " 

"Stay,  till  I  finish.  We  came  here  then  to  pass  the  time  till  evening;  I 
was  quite  sure  of  your  safety,  and  planned  simply  to  send  a  message  to 
you  by  the  shallop-man,  so  you'd  not  think  I'd  betrayed  you  or  fallen  into 
peril.  When  Dolly  told  me  your  notebook  was  in  the  stable  I  swore  to  Slye 
and  Scurry  we'd  catch  you  yet,  inasmuch  as  a  poet  will  go  to  Hell  for  his 
no!:ebook,  and  stationed  them  to  watch  the  stall  for  your  return— in  fact  I 
planned  to  send  the  book  along  to  you  anon  with  my  message  in  it,  and 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  203  ] 

used  the  stratagem  merely  to  rid  myself  for  a  time  of  those  twin  apes. 
Imagine  my  alarm  when  they  fetched  you  in!" 

Ebenezer  remembered,  with  some  discomfort,  the  scene  his  entrance  had 
interrupted. 

"  Tis  too  fantastic  for  words,"  he  declared.  "You  thought  'twas  I  had 
gone,  and  I  'twas  you— I  say,  the  fellow  was  wearing  your  coat!" 

"What?  Impossible!" 

"Nay,  I'm  certain  oft.  The  old  man  at  the  dock  described  it:  a  soiled 
port-purple  coat  and  black  breeches.  Twas  for  that  I  guessed  it  to  be  you." 

"Dear  God!  Tis  marvelous!"  He  laughed  aloud.  "What  a  comedy!" 

Ebenezer  confessed  his  ignorance  of  the  joke. 

"Only  think  on't!"  his  friend  exclaimed.  "When  Slye  and  Scurry  came 
looking  for  their  Laureate  this  morning  and  made  sport  of  you,  not  knowing 
you  were  he,  Dolly  and  I  had  gone  back  yonder  in  the  stable  to  play:  in  the 
first  stall  we  ran  to  we  found  some  poor  wight  sleeping,  a  servingman  by 
the  look  of  him,  and  'twas  he  I  traded  clothes  with  on  the  spot.  Right 
pleased  he  was  to  make  the  trade,  too!" 

"  'Sheart,  you  mean  it  was  the  false  Laureate?" 

"Who  else,  if  the  man  you  heard  of  wore  my  coat?  Belike  he'd  just  fled 
Slye  and  Scurry  and  was  hiding  from  them." 

"Then  'twas  he  they  saw  go  past  the  window  after,  which  saved  my  life!" 

"No  doubt  it  was;  and  learning  of  your  trunk  he  must  have  made  off 
with't.  A  daring  fellow!" 

"He'll  not  get  far,"  Ebenezer  said  grimly.  "I'll  have  him  off  the  ship 
the  instant  we're  aboard." 

Burlingame  pursed  his  lips,  but  said  nothing. 

"What's  wrong,  Henry?" 

"You  plan  to  sail  on  the  Poseidon?'9  Burlingame  asked. 

"Of  course!  What's  to  prevent  our  slipping  off  right  now,  while  Slye  and 
Scurry  wait  us  on  their  ship?" 

"You  forget  my  duty." 

Ebenezer  raised  his  eyebrows.  "Is't  I  or  you  that  have  forgot?" 

"Look  here,  dear  Eben,"  Burlingame  said  warmly.  "I  know  not  who 
this  impostor  is,  but  I'll  warrant  he's  merely  some  pitiful  London  coxcomb 
out  to  profit  by  your  fame.  Let  him  be  Eben  Cooke  on  the  Poseidon: 
haply  the  Captain  will  see  the  imposture  and  clap  him  in  irons,  or  mavbe 
Coode  will  murther  or  corrupt  him,  since  they're  in  the  same  fleet.  Even  if 
he  cany  the  fraud  to  Maryland  we  can  meet  him  at  the  wharf  with  the 


[204]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

sheriff,  and  there's  an  end  to't.  Meanwhile  your  trunk  is  safely  stowed  in 
the  ship's  hold— he  cannot  touch  it/' 

"Then  'fore  God,  Henry,  what  is't  you  propose?" 

"I  know  not  what  John  Coode  hath  up  his  sleeve/'  said  Burlingame,  "nor 
doth  Lord  Baltimore  nor  any  man  else.  Tis  certain  he's  alarmed  at 
Nicholson's  appointment  and  fears  for  his  own  foul  cause;  methinks  he 
plans  to  land  before  the  fleet,  but  whether  to  cover  all  traces  of  his  former 
mischief  or  to  sow  the  seeds  for  more  I  cannot  guess,  nor  what  exactly  he 
plans  for  you.  I  mean  to  carry  on  my  role  as  Coode  and  sail  to  Maryland 
on  the  Morphides,  with  my  trusted  servant  Henry  Cook/' 

"Ah  no,  Henry!  Tis  absurd!" 

Burlingame  shrugged  and  filled  his  pipe.  'We'd  steal  a  march  on  Coode/* 
he  said,  "and  haply  scotch  his  plot  to  boot/' 

He  went  on  to  explain  that  Captains  Slye  and  Scurry  were  engaged  in 
smuggling  tobacco  duty-free  into  England  by  means  of  the  re-export  device; 
that  is,  they  registered  their  cargo  and  paid  duty  on  it  at  an  English  port  of 
entry,  then  reclaimed  the  duty  by  re-exporting  the  tobacco  to  the  nearby 
Isle  of  Man— technically  a  foreign  territory— whence  it  could  be  run  with 
ease  into  either  England  or  Ireland.  "We  could  work  their  ruin  as  well,  by 
deposing  against  them  the  minute  we  land.  What  a  victory  for  Lord 
Baltimorel" 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head  in  awe,  ' 

"Well,  come  now!"  his  friend  cried  after  a  moment,  "Surely  thou'rt  not 
afraid?  Thou'rt  not  so  distraught  about  this  idle  impostor?" 

"To  speak  truly,  I  am  distraught  on  his  account,  Henry.  Tis  not  that  he 
improves  his  state  at  my  expense— had  he  robbed  me,  I'd  be  nothing  much 
alarmed.  But  he  hath  robbed  me  of  myself;  he  hath  poached  upon  my  very 
being!  I  cannot  permit  it/' 

"Oh  la,"  scoffed  Burlingame.  "Thou'rt  talking  schoolish  tot  What  is  this 
coin,  thy  self,  and  how  hath  he  possessed  it?" 

Ebenezer  reminded  his  friend  of  their  first  colloquy  in  the  carriage  from 
London,  wherein  he  had  laid  open  the  nature  of  his  double  essence  as 
virgin  and  poet— that  essence  the  realization  of  which,  after  his  rendezvous 
with  Joan  Toast,  had  brought  him  into  focus,  if  not  actually  into  being, 
and  the  preservation  and  assertion  of  which  was  therefore  his  cardinal  value, 
"Ne'er  again  shall  I  flee  from  myself,  or  in  anywise  disguise  it/'  he 
concluded. "  Twas  just  such  cowardice  caused  my  shame  this  morning,  and 
like  an  omen  'twas  only  my  return  to  this  true  self  that  brought  me  through. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  205  ] 

I  was  cleansed  by  songs  unborn  and  passed  those  anxious  hours  with  the 
muse/' 

Burlingame  confessed  his  inability  to  grasp  the  metaphor,  and  so  the 
poet  explained  in  simple  language  that  he  had  used  four  blank  pages  of 
his  notebook  to  clean  himself  with  and  had  filled  another  two  with  sea- 
poetry. 

"I  swore  then  never  to  betray  myself  again,  Henry:  'twas  only  my  sur- 
prise allowed  this  last  deception.  Should  Slye  and  Scurry  come  upon  us 
now,  I'd  straightway  declare  my  true  identity." 

"And  straightway  take  a  bullet  in  thy  silly  head?  Thou'rt  a  fool!" 

"I  am  a  poet/'  Ebenezer  replied,  mustering  his  failing  courage,  "Let 
him  who  dares  deny  it!  Besides  which,  even  were  there  no  impostor  to 
confront,  'twould  yet  be  necessary  to  cross  on  the  Poseidon:  all  my  verses 
name  that  vessel."  He  opened  his  notebook  to  the  morning's  work.  "Hear 
this,  now: 

"Let  Ocean  roar  his  damnedest  Gale: 
Our  Planks  shan't  leak;  our  Masts  shan't  fail. 
With  great  Poseidon  at  our  Side 
He  seemeth  neither  wild  nor  wide. 

"Morphides  would  spoil  the  meter,  to  say  nothing  of  the  conceit." 

"The  conceit  is  spoiled  already,"  Burlingame  said  sourly.  "The  third  line 
puts  you  overboard,  and  the  last  may  be  read  as  well  to  Poseidon  as  to 
Ocean.  As  for  the  meter,  there's  naught  to  keep  you  from  preserving  the 
name  Poseidon  though  you're  sailing  on  the  Morphides" 

"Nay,  'twere  not  the  same,"  Ebenezer  insisted,  a  little  hurt  by  his 
friend's  hostility.  "  'Tis  the  true  and  only  Poseidon  I  describe: 

44 A  noble  Ship,  from  Deck  to  Peaks, 
Akin  to  those  that  Homers  Greeks 
SaiVd  east  to  Troy  in  Days  of  Yore, 
As  we  saiVd  now  to  MARYLANDS  Shore." 

'Thou'rt  sailing  west,"  Burlingame  observed,  even  more  sourly.  "And 
the  Poseidon  is  a  rat's  nest" 

"Still  greater  cause  for  me  to  board  her,"  the  poet  declared  in  an  injured 
tone,  "else  I  might  describe  her  wrongly." 

"Fogh!  'Tis  a  late  concern  for  fact  you  plead,  is't  not?  Methinks  'twere 
childsplay  for  you  to  make  Poseidon  from  the  Morphides,  if  you  can  make 
him  from  a  livery  stable." 

Ebenezer  closed  his  Notebook  and  rose  to  his  feet.  "I  know  not  why 


[  206  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

thou'rt  set  on  injuring  me,"  he  said  sadly.  "  Tis  your  prerogative  to  flout 
Lord  Baltimore's  directive,  but  will  you  scorn  our  friendship  too,  to  have 
your  way?  Tis  not  as  if  I'd  asked  you  to  go  with  me— though  Heav'n 
knows  I  need  your  guidance!  But  Coode  or  no  Coode,  I  will  have  it  out 
with  this  impostor  and  sail  to  Maryland  on  the  Poseidon:  if  you  will  pursue 
your  reckless  plot  at  any  cost  adieu,  and  pray  God  we  shall  meet  again  at 
Maiden," 

Burlingame  at  this  appeared  to  relent  somewhat:  though  he  would  not 
abandon  his  scheme  to  sail  with  Slye  and  Scurry,  he  apologized  for  his 
acerbity  and,  finding  Ebenezer  equally  resolved  to  board  the  Poseidon, 
he  bade  him  warm,  if  reluctant,  farewell  and  swore  he  had  no  mind  to 
flout  his  orders  from  Lord  Baltimore. 

"Whate'er  I  do,  I  do  with  you  in  mind,"  he  declared.  "Tis  Coode's 
plot  against  you  I  must  thwart.  Think  not  I'll  e'er  forsake  you,  Eben:  one 
way  or  another  I'll  be  your  guide  and  savior." 

"Till  Maiden,  then?"  Ebenezer  asked  with  great  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"Till  Maiden,"  Burlingame  affirmed,  and  after  a  final  handshake  the 
poet  passed  through  the  pantry  and  out  the  rear  door  of  the  King  OT  the 
Seas,  in  great  haste  lest  the  fleet  depart  without  him. 

Luckily  he  found  the  shallop  at  its  pier,  making  ready  for  another  trip* 
Not  until  he  noticed  Burlingame's  chest  among  the  other  freight  aboard 
did  he  remember  that  he  had  posed  as  a  manservant  to  the  Laureate,  and 
repellent  as  was  the  idea  of  maintaining  the  deception,  he  realized  with  a 
sigh  that  it  would  be  folly  now  to  reveal  his  true  identity,  for  the  ensuing 
debate  could  well  cause  him  to  miss  the  boat 

"Hi,  there!"  he  called,  for  the  old  man  was  slipping  oS  the  mooring- 
lines.  "Wait  for  me!" 

"Aha,  'tis  the  poet's  young  dandy,  is  it?"  said  the  man  Joseph,  who  stood 
in  the  stern.  "We  had  near  left  ye  high  and  dry." 

Breathing  hard  from  his  final  sprint  along  the  dock,  Ebenezer  boarded 
the  shallop.  "Stay,"  he  ordered.  "Make  fast  your  lines  a  moment" 

"Nonsense!"  laughed  the  sailor.  "We're  late  as't  is!" 

But  Ebenezer  declared,  to  the  great  disgust  of  father  and  son  alike,  that 
he  had  made  an  error  before,  which  he  now  sincerely  regretted:  in  his 
eagerness  to  serve  his  master  he  had  mistaken  Captain  Coode's  trunk  for 
the  one  committed  to  his  charge.  He  would  be  happy  to  pay  feny-fxaght 
on  it  anyway,  since  they  had  been  at  the  labor  of  loading  it  aboard;  but  the 
trunk  must  be  returned  to  the  pier  before  Captain  Coode  learned  of  the 
matter. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [207] 

"  Tis  an  indulgent  master  will  suffer  such  a  fool  to  serve  him/'  Joseph 
observed;  but  nevertheless,  with  appropriate  grunts  and  curses  the  transfer 
was  effected,  and  upon  receipt  of  an  extra  shilling  apiece  by  way  of  gratuity, 
the  ferrymen  cast  off  their  lines  once  more— the  old  man  going  along  as 
well  this  trip,  for  the  wind  had  risen  somewhat  since  early  afternoon.  The 
son,  Joseph,  pushed  off  from  the  bow  with  a  pole,  ran  up  the  jib  to  luff  in 
the  breeze,  close-hauled  and  sheeted  home  the  mainsail,  and  went  forward 
again  to  belay  the  jib  sheet;  his  father  put  the  tiller  down  hard,  the  sails 
filled,  and  the  shallop  gained  way  in  the  direction  of  the  Downs,  heeling 
gently  on  a  larboard  tack.  The  poets  heart  shivered  with  excitement;  the 
salt  wind  brought  the  blood  to  his  brow  and  made  his  stomach  flutter. 
After  some  minutes  of  sailing  he  was  able  to  see  the  fleet  against  the  lower- 
ing sun:  half  a  hundred  barks,  snows,  ketches,  brigs,  and  full-rigged  ships 
all  anchored  in  a  loose  cluster  around  the  man-o'-war  that  would  escort 
them  through  pirate-waters  to  the  Virginia  Capes,  whence  they  would  pro- 
ceed to  their  separate  destinations.  On  closer  view  the  vessels  could  be  seen 
bristling  with  activity:  lighters  and  ferries  of  every  description  shuttled  from 
ship  to  shore  and  ship  to  ship  with  last-minute  passengers  and  cargo;  sailors 
toiled  in  the  rigging  bending  sails  to  the  spars;  officers  shouted  a-low  and 
aloft, 

"Which  is  the  Poseidon?"  he  asked  joyously. 

"Yonder,  off  to  starboard/'  The  old  man  pointed  with  his  pipestem  to  a 
ship  anchored  some  quarter  of  a  mile  away  on  their  right,  to  windward;  the 
next  tack  would  bring  them  to  her.  A  ship  of  perhaps  two  hundred  tons, 
broad  of  bow  and  square  of  stern,  fo'c'sle  and  poop  high  over  the  main 
deck,  fore,  main,  and  mizzen  with  yards  and  topmasts  all,  the  Poseidon 
was  not  greatly  different  in  appearance  from  the  other  vessels  of  her  class 
in  the  fleet:  indeed,  if  anything  she  was  less  prepossessing.  To  the  seasoned 
eye  her  frayed  halyards,  ill-tarred  shrouds,  rusty  chain  plates,  "Irish  pen- 
nants," and  general  slovenliness  bespoke  old  age  and  careless  usage.  But 
to  Ebenezer  she  far  outshone  her  neighbors.  "Majesticl"  he  exclaimed,  and 
scarce  could  wait  to  board  her.  When  at  last  they  completed  the  tack  and 
made  fast  alongside,  he  scrambled  readily  up  the  ladder— a  feat  that  would 
as  a  rule  have  been  beyond  him— and  saluted  the  deck  officer  with  a  cheery 
good  day. 

"May  I  enquire  your  name,  sir?"  asked  that  worthy. 

"Indeed,"  the  poet  replied,  bowing  slightly.  "I  am  Ebenezer  Cooke,  Poet 
and  Laureate  of  the  Province  of  Maryland.  My  passage  is  already  hired." 


[208]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

The  officer  beckoned  to  a  pair  of  husky  sailors  standing  nearby,  and 
Ebenezer  found  both  his  arms  held  fast. 

"What  doth  this  mean?"  he  cried.  Everyone  on  the  Poseidon's  deck 
turned  to  watch  the  scene. 

"Let  us  test  whether  he  can  swim  as  grandly  as  he  lies/'  the  officer  said. 
"Throw  the  wretch  o'er  the  side,  boys/' 

"Desist!"  the  poet  commanded.  "I  shall  have  the  Captain  flog  the  lot  of 
you!  I  am  Ebenezer  Cooke,  I  said;  by  order  of  Lord  Baltimore  Poet  and 
Laureate  of  Maryland!" 

"I  see/'  said  the  officer,  smiling  uncordially.  "And  hath  His  Laureateship 
anyone  to  vouch  for  his  identity?  Surely  the  gentlemen  and  ladies  among 
the  passengers  must  know  their  Laureatel" 

"Of  course  I  can  bring  proof,"  said  Ebenezer,  "though  it  seems  to  me 

'tis  you  should  bear  the  burden!  I  have  a  friend  ashore  who "  He 

stopped,  recalling  Burlingame's  disguise. 

"Who  will  swear  to't  through  his  teeth,  for  all  you've  bribed  him/'  de- 
clared the  officer. 

"He  lies,"  said  the  young  man  Joseph  from  the  shallop,  who  had  climbed 
aboard  behind  Ebenezer.  "He  told  me  he  was  a  servant  of  the  Laureate's, 
and  now  I  doubt  e'en  that.  What  servant  would  pretend  to  be  his  master, 
when  his  master's  near  at  hand?" 

"Nay,  you  mistake  me!"  Ebenezer  protested.  "The  man  who  calls  him- 
self Ebenezer  Cooke  is  an  impostor,  I  swear't!  Fetch  the  knave  out,  that 
I  may  look  him  in  the  eye  and  curse  him  for  a  fraud!" 

"He  is  in  his  cabin  writing  verse,"  the  officer  replied,  "and  shan't  be 
bothered/'  To  the  sailors  he  said,  "Throw  him  o'er  the  side  and  be  damned 
to  him." 

"Stay!  Stay!"  Ebenezer  shrieked.  He  wished  with  all  his  heart  he  were  at 
the  King  o'  the  Seas  with  Burlingame.  "I  can  prove  the  man's  deceiving 
you!  I  have  a  commission  from  Lord  Baltimore  himself!" 

"Then  prithee  show  it,"  the  officer  invited  with  a  smil^  "and  I  shall 
throw  the  other  wight  o'er  the  side  instead." 

"Dear  God!"  the  poet  groaned,  the  facts  dawning  on  him*  "I  have  mis- 
laid it!  Belike  'tis  in  my  chest  somewhere,  below." 

"Belike  it  is,  since  the  chest  is  Mr.  Cooke's.  In  any  case  'tis  not  mislaid, 
for  I  have  seen  it— the  Laureate  produced  it  on  request  by  way  of  voucher. 
Toss  the  lout  over!" 

But  Ebenezer,  realizing  his  predicament,  fell  to  his  knees  on  the  deck 
and  embraced  the  officer's  legs.  "Nay,  I  pray  you,  do  not  drown  me!  I  own 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  209  ] 

I  sought  to  fool  you,  good  masters,  but  'twas  only  a  simple  prank,  a  mere 
April  Foolery.  I  am  the  Laureate's  servant,  e'en  as  this  gentleman 
affirmed,  and  have  the  Laureate's  notebook  here  to  prove  it.  Take  me  to 
my  master,  I  pray  you,  and  I  shall  beg  his  pardon.  Twas  but  a  simple 
prank,  I  swear!" 

"What  say  yey  sir?"  asked  one  of  the  sailors. 

"He  may  speak  truly/'  the  officer  allowed,  consulting  a  paper  in  his  hand. 
"Mr.  Cooke  hired  passage  for  a  servant,  but  brought  none  with  him  from 
the  harbor/' 

"Methinks  he's  but  a  rascally  adventurer,"  said  Joseph. 

"Nay,  I  jjwear't!"  cried  the  poet,  remembering  that  Burlingame  had  hired 
berths  that  morning  for  Ebenezer  and  himself  in  the  guise  of  the  servant 
Bertrand.  "I  am  Bertrand  Burton  of  St.  Giles  in  the  Fields,  masters— Mr. 
Cooke's  man,  and  his  father's!" 

The  officer  considered  the  matter  for  a  moment.  "Very  well,  send  him 
below  instead,  till  his  master  acknowledges  him." 

For  all  his  misery  Ebenezer  was  relieved:  it  was  his  plan  to  stay  aboard 
at  any  cost,  for  once  under  way,  he  reasoned,  he  could  press  his  case  until 
they  were  persuaded  of  his  true  identity  and  the  mysterious  stranger's 
imposture. 

"Ah  God,  I  thank  thee,  sir!" 

The  sailors  led  him  toward  the  fo'c'sle. 

"Not  at  all,"  the  officer  said  with  a  bow.  "In  an  hour  we  shall  be  at  sea, 
and  if  your  master  doth  not  own  you,  'twill  be  a  long  swim  home." 


11 :  DEPARTURE  FROM  ALBION:  THE  LAUREATE  AT  SEA 


THUS  IT  HAPPENED  THAT  NOT  LONG  AFTERWARDS,  WHEN  ANCHORS  WERE 

weighed  and  catted,  buntlines  cast  off,  sails  unfurled,  and  sheets,  halyards, 
and  braces  belayed,  and  the  Poseidon  was  sea-borne  on  a  broad  reach  past 
The  Lizard,  Ebenezer  was  not  on  hand  to  witness  the  spectacle  with  the 
gentlemen  of  the  quarter-deck,,  but  lay  disconsolate  in  a  fo'c'sle  hammock- 
alone,  for  the  crew  was  busy  above.  The  officer's  last  words  were  frightening 
enough,  to  be  sure,  but  he  no  longer  really  wished  he  were  back  in  the  King 
o'  the  Seas.  There  was  a  chance,  of  course,  that  the  impostor  could  not  be 
intimidated,  but  surely  as  a  last  resort  he'd  let  the  genuine  Laureate  pose 


[  210  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

as  his  servant  rather  than  condemn  him  to  drown;  and  Ebenezfer  saw  noth- 
ing but  certain  death  in  Burlingame's  daring  scheme.  All  things  considered, 
then,  he  believed  his  course  of  action  was  really  rather  prudent,  perhaps 
the  best  expedient  imaginable  under  the  circumstances;  had  he  acquiesced 
to  it  at  Burlingame's  advice,  and  were  his  friend  at  hand  to  lend  him  moral 
support  in  the  forthcoming  interview,  he  might  still  have  been  fearful  but 
he'd  not  have  been  disconsolate.  The  thing  that  dizzied  him,  brought 
sweat  to  his  palms,,  and  shortened  his  breath  was  that  he  alone  had  elected 
to  board  the  Poseidon,  to  pose  as  Bertrand  Burton,  to  declare  to  the  officer 
his  real  identity,  and  finally  to  repudiate  the  declaration  and  risk  his  life  to 
reach  Maiden.  He  heard  the  rattling  of  the  anchor  chain,  the  scamper  of 
feet  on  the  deck  above  his  head,  the  shouted  commands  of  the  mate,  the 
chanteys  of  the  crew  on  the  lines;  he  felt  the  ship  heel  slightly  to  larboard 
and  gain  steerage-way,  and  he  was  disconsolate— very  nearly  ill  again,  as  in 
his  room  that  final  night  in  London. 

Presently  an  aged  sailor  climbed  halfway  down  the  companionway  into 
the  fo'c'sle— a  toothless,  hairless,  flinty-eyed  salt  with  sunken  cheeks*  color- 
less lips,  yellow-leather  skin,  and  a  great  sore  along  the  side  of  his  nose, 

"Look  alive,  laddie!"  he  chirped  from  the  ladder.  "The  Captain  wants 
ye  on  the  poop." 

Ebenezer  sprang  readily  from  the  hammock,  his  notebook  still  clutched 
in  his  hand,  and  failing  to  allow  for  the  incline  of  the  deck,  crashed  heavily 
against  a  nearby  bulkhead. 

"Whoa!  'Sheart!"  he  muttered. 

"Hee  hee!  Step  lively,  son!" 

"What  doth  the  Captain  wish  of  me?"  the  poet  asked,  steadying  himself 
at  the  foot  of  the  ladder.  "Can  it  be  he  realizes  who  I  am,  and  what 
indignities  I  suffer?" 

"Belike  he'll  have  ye  keelhauled,"  the  old  man  cackled,  and  fetched 
Ebenezer  a  wicked  pinch  upon  his  cheek,  so  sharp  it  made  the  tears  come. 
"We've  barnacles  enough  to  take  the  hide  off  a  dog  shark*  Come  along 
with  ye!" 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  climb  the  ladder  to  the  main  deck  and 
follow  his  comfortless  guide  aft  to  the  poop.  There  stood  the  Captain,  a 
florid,  beardless,  portly  fellow,  jowled  and  stern  as  any  Calvinist,  but  with  a 
pink  of  debauchery  in  both  his  eyes,  and  wet  red  lips  that  would  have 
made  Arminius  frown. 

Ebenezer,  rubbing  his  injured  cheek,  observed  a  general  whispering 
among  the  gentlemen  on  the  quarter-deck  as  he  passed,  and  hung  his  head 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  211  ] 

When  he  stepped  up  on  the  ladderway  to  the  poop,  the  old  sailor  caught 
him  by  the  coat  and  pulled  him  back. 

"Hold,  there!  The  poop  deck's  not  for  the  likes  of  you!" 

"Good  enough,  Ned,"  said  the  Captain,  waving  him  off. 

"What  is't  you  wish,  sir?"  Ebenezer  asked. 

"Nothing/'  The  Captain  looked  down  at  him  with  interest.  "Tis  Mr. 
Cooke,  thy  master,  wants  to  see  ye,  not  I.  D'ye  still  say  thou'rt  his  man?" 

"Aye." 

"Ye  know  what  sometimes  happens  to  stowaways?" 

Ebenezer  glanced  at  the  sky  darkening  with  evening  to  the  east  and 
storm  clouds  to  the  west,  the  whitecapped  water,  and  the  fast-receding  rocks 
of  England.  His  heart  chilled. 

"Aye." 

"Take  him  to  my  cabin,"  the  Captain  ordered  Ned.  "But  mind  ye  knock 
ere  ye  enter:  Mr.  Cooke  is  busy  rhyming  verses." 

Ebenezer  was  impressed:  he  would  not  himself  have  dared  to  request 
such  a  privilege.  Whoever  this  impostor  was,  he  had  the  manner  of  the  rank 
he  claimedl 

The  sailor  led  him  by  the  sleeve  to  a  companionway  at  the  after  end  of 
the  quarter-deck  which  opened  to  the  captain's  quarters  under  the  poop. 
They  descended  a  short  ladder  into  what  appeared  to  be  a  chart-room,  and 
old  Ned  rapped  on  a  door  leading  aft. 

"What  is  it?"  someone  inside  demanded.  The  voice  was  sharp,  self- 
confident,  and  faintly  annoyed:  certainly  not  the  voice  of  a  man  fearful  of 
exposure.  Ebenezer  thought  again  of  the  dark  sea  outside  and  shivered: 
there  was  not  a  chance  of  reaching  shore. 

"Begging  your  pardon,  Mr.  Cooke,"  Ned  pleaded,  clearly  intimidated 
himself,  "I  have  the  wretch  here  that  says  he  is  your  servant,  sir:  the  one 
that  tried  to  tell  us  he  was  you,  sir." 

"Aha!  Send  him  in  and  leave  us  alone,"  said  the  voice,  as  if  relishing  the 
prospect.  All  thought  of  victory  fled  the  poet's  mind:  he  resolved  to  ask  no 
more  than  mercy  from  the  man— and  possibly  a  promise  to  return,  when 
they  reached  Maryland,  that  commission  from  Lord  Baltimore,  which  some- 
how or  other  the  impostor  had  acquired.  And  maybe  an  apology,  for  it 
was,  after  all,  a  deuced  humiliation  he  was  suffering! 

Ned  opened  the  door  and  assisted  Ebenezer  through  with  another  cruel 
pinch,  this  time  on  the  buttock,  and  an  evil  laugh.  The  poet  jumped 
involuntarily;  again  his  eyes  watered,  and  his  knees  went  weak  when  Ned 
closed  the  door  behind  him.  He  found  himself  in  a  small  but  handsomely 


[  212  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

furnished  cabin  in  the  extreme  rear  of  the  vessel.  The  floor  was  carpeted; 
the  Captain's  bed,  built  into  one  wall,  was  comfortably  clothed  in  clean 
linen.  A  large  brass  oil  lamp,  already  lit,  swung  gently  from  the  ceiling  and 
illuminated  a  great  oak  table  beneath.  There  was  even  a  glass-fronted  book- 
case, and  oil  portraits  in  the  style  of  Titian,  Rubens,  and  Correggio  were 
fastened  with  decorative  brass  bolts  around  the  walls.  The  impostor, 
dressed  in  Burlingame's  port-purple  coat  and  sporting  a  campaigner  wig, 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  poet  at  the  far  wall— actually  the  stem  of  the 
ship— staring  through  small  leaded  windowpanes  at  the  Poseidon's  wake. 
Satisfied  that  Ned  was  gone,  Ebenezer  rushed  around  the  table  and  fell  to 
his  knees  at  the  other  man's  feet. 

"Dear,  dear  sir!"  he  cried,  not  daring  to  look  up,  "Believe  me,  I've  no 
mind  at  all  to  expose  your  disguise!  No  mind  at  all,  sir!  I  know  full  well  how 
you  came  by  your  clothing  in  the  stable  of  the  King  o*  the  Seas  and  fooled 
the  ferryman  Joseph  and  his  father  at  the  wharf— though  how  in  Heaven 
you  got  my  Lord  Baltimore's  commission,  that  he  wiote  for  me  in  his  own 
hand  not  a  week  past,  I  cannot  fathom/' 

The  impostor,  above  him,  made  a  small  sound  and  backed  away. 

"But  no  matter!  Think  not  I'm  wroth,  or  mean  to  take  revenge!  I  ask  no 
more  than  that  you  let  me  pose  as  your  servant  on  this  ship,  nor  shall  I 
breathe  a  word  oft  to  a  soul,  you  may  depend  on'tl  What  would  it  profit 
you  to  see  me  drown?  And  when  we  land  in  Maryland,  why,  IT!  bring  no 
charge  against  you,  but  call  it  quits  and  think  no  more  oft  Nay,  HI  g# 
thee  a  place  at  Maiden,  my  estate^  or  pay  your  fare  to  a  neighboring 
province " 

Glancing  up  at  this  last  to  see  what  effect  his  plea  was  having,  he  stopped 
and  said  no  more.  The  blood  drained  from  his  face. 

"Nay!"  He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  leaped  at  the  impostor,  who  barely 
escaped  to  the  other  side  of  the  round  oak  table.  His  campaigner,  however, 
fell  to  the  floor,  and  the  light  from  the  lamp  fell  Ml  on  Bertiand  Burton 
—the  real  Bertrand,  whom  Ebenezer  had  last  seen  in  bis  room  in  Pndding 
Lane  when  he  left  it  to  seek  a  notebook  at  the  Sign  of  the  Raven. 

JGod!  F God!"  He  could  scarcely  speak  for  rage, 

"Prithee,  Master  Ebenezer,  sir *  The  voice  was  Bertrand's  voice, 

formidable  no  more.  Ebenezer  lunged  again,  but  the  servant  kept  the  table 
between  them. 

"You'd  watch  me  drown!  Let  me  crawl  to  you  for  mere?!" 
"Prithee — " 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  213 

"Wretch!  Only  let  me  lay  hands  on  that  craven  neck,  to  wring  it  like  a 
capon's!  We'll  see  who  drinks  salt  water!" 

"Nay,  prithee,  master!  I  meant  thee  no  ill,  I  swear't!  I  can  explain  all 
of  it,  every  part!  Dear  God,  I  never  dreamed  'twas  you  they'd  caught,  sir! 
Think  ye  I'd  see  ye  suffer,  that  e'er  was  such  a  gentle  master?  I,  that  was 
your  blessed  father's  trusty  friend  and  adviser  for  years?  Why,  I'd  take  a 
flogging  ere  I'd  let  'em  lay  a  hand  on  ye,  sir!" 

"Flogging  you  shall  have  right  soon,  i'faith!"  the  poet  said  grimly,  re- 
versing his  field  in  vain  from  clockwise  to  counterclockwise.  "Nor  shall  that 
be  the  worst  oft,  when  I  catch  you!"  ' 

"Do  but  let  me  say,  sir " 

"Hi!  I  near  had  thee  then!" 

" — 'twas  through  no  fault  of  mine " 

"Aft/  You  knave,  hold  still!" 

"•—but  bad  rum  and  a  treacherous  woman " 

"'Sheart!  But  when  I  have  thee " 

" — and  who's  really  to  blame,  sir " 

"—I  shall  flog  that  purple  coat  from  off  thy  back " 

"—is  your  sister  Anna's  beau!" 

The  chase  ended.  Ebenezer  leaned  across  the  table  into  the  lamplight, 
brighter  now  for  the  gathering  dark  outside. 

"What  is't  I  heard  you  say?"  he  asked  carefully. 

"I  only  said,  sir,  what  commenced  this  whole  affair  was  the  pound  ster- 
ling your  sister  and  her  gentleman  friend  presented  me  with  in  the  post- 
house,  when  I  had  fetched  your  baggage  there." 

"I  shall  cut  thy  lying  tongue  from  out  thy  head!" 

"Tis  true  as  Scripture,  sir,  I  sweartl"  Bertrand  said,  still  moving  warily 
as  Ebenezer  moved. 

"You  saw  them  there  together?  Impossible!" 

"God  smite  me  dead  if  I  did  not,  sir:  Miss  Anna  and  some  gentleman 
with  a  beard,  that  she  called  Henry." 

"Dear  Heav'n!"  the  poet  muttered  as  if  to  himself.  "But  you  called  him 
her  beau,  Bertrand?" 

"Well,  now,  no  slur  intended,  sir;  oh,  no  slur  intended  at  all!  I  meant 
no  more  by't  than  that— Ah,  sir,  you  know  full  well  how  folks  make  hasty 
judgments,  and  far  be't  from  me " 

"Cease  thy  prating!  What  did  you  see,  that  made  you  call  him  her  beau? 
No  mor£  than  cordial  conversation?" 

"'Sheart,  xather  more  than  that,  sir!  But  think  not  I'm  the  sort " 


[214]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"I  know  well  thou'rt  a  thief,  a  liar,  and  a  cheat,"  Ebenezer  snapped 
"What  is't  you  saw  that  set  thy  filthy  mind  to  work?  Eh?" 

"I  hardly  dare  tell,  sir;  thou'rt  in  such  a  rage!  Who's  to  say  ye'll  not 
strike  me  dead,  though  from  first  to  last  I  am  innocent  as  a  babe?" 

"Enough/'  the  poet  sighed,  "I  know  the  signs  of  old.  You'll  drive  me 
mad  with  your  digressions  and  delays  until  I  guarantee  your  safety.  Very 
well,  I  shan't  besmirch  my  hands  on  you,  I  promise.  Speak  plainly,  now!" 

"They  were  in  each  other's  arms,"  the  servant  said,  "and  billing  and 
cooing  at  a  mad  rate  when  I  came  up  with  your  baggage.  When  Miss  Anna 
had  sight  of  me  she  blushed  and  tried  to  compose  herself,  yet  all  the  while 
she  and  the  gentleman  spoke  to  me,  they  could  not  for  the  life  of  'em 
stand  still,  but  must  ever  be  at  sweetmeat  and  honeybee,  and  fondle  and 
squeeze Are  you  ill,  sir?" 

Ebenezer  had  gone  pale;  he  slumped  into  the  Captain's  chair  and 
clutched  his  head  in  his  hands.  "  Tis  nothing." 

"Well,  as  I  said,  sir,  they  could  not  keep  their  hands * 

"Finish  thy  story  if  you  must,"  Ebenezer  broke  in,  "but  speak  no  more 
of  those  two,  as  you  prize  your  wretched  life!  They  paid  you,  did  they?" 

"They  did  in  truth,  sir,  for  fetching  down  your  baggage," 

"But  a  pound?  Tis  rather  a  princely  reward  for  the  task." 

"Ah,  now,  sir,  I  am  after  all  an  old  and  trusted "  He  stopped  half- 
way through  the  sentence,  so  fierce  was  the  look  on  Ebetiezer's  face.  "Be- 
sides which,"  he  concluded,  "now  I  see  hov/t  strikes  ye,  'tis  likely  they  wished 
me  to  say  naught  of  what  I'd  seen.  I  tell  yey  sir,  'tis  not  for  much  I'd  have 
missed  your  setting  out!  Had  not  Miss  Anna  and  her  gentleman  insisted 
that  I  leave  at  once " 

"Spare  me  thy  devotion,"  Ebenezer  said.  "What  did  you  then,,  and  why 
did  you  pose  as  me?  Speak  fast,  ere  I  fetch  the  Captain." 

"  'Tis  a  tragic  tale,  sir,  that  shames  me  in  the  telling.  I  beg  ye  keep  in 
mind  I'd  never  have  presumed,  sir,  save  that  I  was  distracted  and  possessed 
by  grief  at  your  arrest  and  in  direst  peril  of  my  life," 

"My  arrest!" 

"Aye,  sir,  in  the  posthouse.  Tis  a  mystery  to  me  yet  how  tbou'rt  free> 
and  how  you  came  so  rapidly  from  London." 

Ebenezer  smacked  his  hand  upon  the  table.  "Speak  English,  man! 
Straight  English  sentences  a  man  can  follow!" 

"Very  well,  sir,"  Bertrand  said.  "I  shall  begin  at  the  beginning,  if  yell 
bear  with  me."  So  saying,  he  took  the  liberty  of  sitting  at  the  Captain's 
table,  facing  Ebenezer,  and  with  a  full  complement  of  moralizing  asides 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [215] 

and  other  commentary,  delivered  himself  during  the  next  half  hour  of  the 
following  story: 

"  Twas  a  double  grief  I  carried  from  the  posthouse  in  my  heart,  sir,  in- 
asmuch as  I  had  lost  the  gentlest,  kindliest  master  that  ever  poor  servingman 
served,  and  could  not  even  ckim  the  privilege  of  seeing  him  off  to  Plym- 
outh in  his  coach,  and  wishing  him  a  last  Godspeed.  Therefore  I  sought 

a  double  physic  for't.  With  the  pound  Miss  Anna  and  her What  I  mean 

to  say,  sir,  I  hied  me  to  a  winehouse  near,  at  hand  and  drank  a  deal  of 
rackpunch,  that  the  rogue  of  a  barman  had  laced  with  such  poisonous  mo- 
lasses rum  I  near  went  blind  on  the  spot.  Three  glasses  served  to  rob  me 
of  all  judgment,  yet  such  was  my  pain  at  losing  you  I  drank  off  seven, 
and  bought  a  quart  of  ratafia  besides,  for  Betsy  Birdsall.  That  is  to  say,  not 
all  the  bottled  spirits  in  London  could  restore  my  own,  and  so  at  length 
I  fled  for  comfort  back  to  Pudding  Lane,  to  your  rooms,  sir.  Yet  well  I 
knew  they'd  seem  so  vacant  with  ye  gone,  'twould  but  increase  tenfold  my 
pain  to  sit  alone,  and  for  that  cause  I  stopped  belowstairs  to  summon 
Betsy  Birdsall— ye  recall  the  chambermaid,  sir,  that  had  the  unnatural  hus- 
band and  the  fetching  laugh?  We  climbed  the  stairs  together,  and  'sheart! 
so  far  from  vacant,,  your  rooms  were  fit  to  burst  with  men,  sir!  A  wight 
named  Bragg  there  was,  that  looked  nor  manlier  than  my  Betsy's  husband, 
and  a  half-a-dozen  sheriff's  bullies  with  him;  'twas  you  they  sought,  sir, 
with  some  false  tale  of  a  ledger-book— I  ne'er  made  rhyme  nor  sense  of  tl 

"Directly  they  spied  me  a  shout  went  up,  and  they  were  that  bent  on 
justice,  I  feared  for  Betsy's  honor  at  their  hands.  At  length  I  told  them,  in 
answer  to  their  queries,  my  master  was  at  the  posthouse,  and  off  they  ran 

to  catch  ye •  Nay,  look  not  thus,  sirl  'Tis  not  as  ye  think,  I  swear't!  Not 

for  a  moment  would  I  have  breathed  the  truth,  had  I  not  known  your 
coach  was  some  time  gone— rather  would  I  have  suffered  death  itself,  or 
prison,  at  their  hands!  But  well  I  knew  'twas  a  wild-goose  chase  they  chased, 
and  good  riddancel 

"We  turned  to't  then,  the  wench  and  I,  and  with  her  her  ratafia  and  me 
my  rum  we  lacked  no  fire  to  warm  the  sheets  withal,  and  were  that  tired 
when  we  had  done,  that  though  'twas  brightest  day  we  slept  some  hours 
in  sweat,  sack  a  sack.  Anon  I  knew,  by  certain  signs,  my  mount  was  fresh 
and  restless  for  the  jumps;  yet  for  a  time  I  feigned  to  slumber  on.  (The 
truth  oft  is,  though  the  girl  and  I  are  twins  in  will  and  skill,  I've  twice  her 
years  and  half  her  strength,  and  more  than  once  have  cantered  willy-nilly 
when  I  yearned  to  walk.)  There  were  these  signs,  I  say,  that  I'd  have  naught 
of,  till  Betsy  made  a  moan  and  dived  head  foremost  'neath  the  covers.  The 


[  2l6  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

cause  wherefor  I  saw  at  once  in  opening  my  eyes,  for  'twas  not  her  hands 
were  on  me  after  all,  but  the  hands  of  Mister  Trentice-Clerk  himself, 
the  winehouse  fiddler!  Aye,  I  swear't,  'twas  that  same  Ralph  Birdsall, 
Betsy's  husband,  that  erst  was  wont  to  leave  his  field  unplowed,  but  since 
I  seeded  it  had  grown  such  a  jealous  farmer  he  looked  to's  plot  five  times 
a  day.  He  had  come  home  to  run  another  furrow,  like  as  not,  and  on  ad- 
vice from  one  below— the  cook's  boy  Tim,  that  long  himself  had  leched 
for  Betsy—he  stole  upstairs  to  find  us. 

"  'Sblood,  'twas  a  murtherous  moment,  sir!  I  had  like  to  smirch  me  for 
very  fright,  and  waited  only  for  knife  or  ball.  Betsy  likewise,  albeit  her 
head  was  buried  like  the  ostrich's,  showed  great  alarm:  'twas  writ  all  over 
her  hinder  part.  Yet  Birdsall  himself  seemed  no  less  racked:  he  shivered 
like  a  yawning  cat  and  drew  his  breath  unnaturally.  Nor  was't  in  wrath 
his  hands  lay  on  me,  as  I  soon  saw.  Great  tears  coursed  down  his  cheeks, 
the  which  were  smooth  as  any  girl's;  he  sniffed  and  bit  his  underlip,  yet 
would  not  speak  nor  smite  me  down. 

"  'Out  on't!'  I  cried  at  last.  'Here  I  lie,  and  there  lies  thy  wife,  right 
roundly  rogered:  ye  have  caught  us  fair  enough.  Then  make  an  end  on't, 
sir,  or  get  thee  hence!7  He  then  composed  himself  and  said,  that  though 
'twas  in  his  rights  to  slay  the  twain  of  us,  yet  he  had  no  taste  for  bloodshed 
and  loved  his  wife  besides.  The  horns  were  on  his  brow,  he  said,  nor 
could  his  short-sword  poll  him.  Moreover,  he  declared  that  in  bedding 
Betsy  I  had  bedded  him,  forasmuch  as  marriage  made  them  one;  and  on 
this  ground  averred,  that  whate'er  Betsy  felt  for  me,  he  could  but  feel 
the  same— in  short,  to  the  degree  I  was  her  lover,  I  was  his  as  well,  and 
this  in  the  eyes  of  God  Himself! 

"Now  all  this  Jesuitry  I  heard  amazed,  yet  was  right  glad  to  remain 
unpunctured,  and  I  made  bold  to  put  him  in  mind  of  that  ancient  and 
consoling  verity,  None  save  the  mttol  knows  he  is  no  cuckold.  On  hearing 
which,  the  wretch  straightway  embraced  me,  and  de'il  I  had  no  taste  for% 
'twas  give  him  his  head  or  lose  my  own.  Betsy  meanwhile,  on  hearing  how 
the  wind  blew,  soon  calmed  her  shivering  hams  and,  throwing  off  the  covers, 
cried  she  had  no  mind  to  play  Rub-a-dub-dub  nor  could  she  fathom  how 
such  a  bedful  of  women  had  ever  got  her  with  child.  At  this  Ralph  Birdsall 
gave  a  mighty  start  and  in  a  trembling  tone  enquired,  was't  he  or  I  had  got 
the  child?  Whereupon  my  Betsy  cried,  *  'Twas  he!  'Twas  my  sweet  Ber- 
trand!'  Methought  I  was  betrayed  and  cursed  her  for  a  liar;  to  Ralph  I  swore 
I'd  ne'er  laid  hands  on  Betsy  till  a  fortnight  past,  nor  swived  her  till  a  good 
week  after,  whereas  the  child  was  three  months  in  her  belly  if  he  was  a 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  21J  ] 

day.  'He  lies!'  swore  Betsy;  *I  swear'tf  swore  I.  'Nay!'  swore  she.  "Tis  full 
six  months  I've  been  his  whore,  that  had  no  husband  to  wife  me!  A  hun- 
dred times  hath  he  climbed  and  sowed  me,  till  I  am  full  as  a  full-corned 
goose  of  him!'  Ralph  Birdsall  then  fetched  out  his  sword,  that,  clerk 
or  no,  he  boasted  always  at  his  hip.  The  truth!7  he  cried,  and  shook  all 
over  as  with  an  ague.  I  still  took  Betsy  for  a  traitor,  and  so  declared,  *  Tore 
God  thy  wife's  a  hellish  liar,  sir,  but  nonetheless  she  is  no  whore.  May 
I  fry  in  Hell  if  the  child  is  any  man's  but  yours/ 

"Alas!  What  man  can  say  he  knows  his  fellow  man?  Who'd  not  have 
sworn,  when  at  last  I  quite  persuaded  Birdsall,  'twould  soften  his  wrath— 
the  more  for  that  'twas  not  his  horns  that  galled  him?  Yet  when  I'd  said 
my  piece  and  he  Amen'd  it,  he  drew  himself  up  and  scowled  a  fearsome 
scowl.  Whore!'  he  cried  at  Betsy,  and  with  the  flat  of  his  sword  he  fetched 
her  a  swingeing  clap  athwart  her  seat.  Nor  stopped  he  there,  but  made 
to  run  me  through,  and  'twas  only  the  nimblest  of  legs  that  saved  my 
neck.  I  snatched  up  my  breeches  and  dashed  for  the  door,  with  the  fiddler 
in  hot  career  behind,  nor  durst  I  stop  to  cover  my  shame  till  I  was  half 
a  square  before  him — Better  lose  pride  than  hide,  sir,  as  they  say.  As  for 
my  tatling  Betsy,  the  last  I  saw  her  she  was  springing  hither  and  yon 
about  the  room,  sir,,  hands  on  her  buttocks  and  hollowing  like  a  hero, 
nor  have  I  seen  her  since.  The  truth  oft  was,  as  I  guessed  later,  the 
babe  in  Betsy's  belly  was  the  fiddler's  claim  to  manhood,  so  long  as  he 
thought  himself  the  father;  it  took  no  more  than  discovering  us  rem  in  rem 
to  quite  undo  him.  Twas  only  to  save  me  the  wench  gave  out  the  truth, 
and  'sblood!  I  cut  my  throat  to  call  her  false,  for  albeit  the  cuckold  lost 
my  trail,  he'd  vowed  to  hound  me  to  the  earth's  ends  and  poll  that  horn 
wherewith  himself  was  horned! 

"There  was  naught  for  it  then  but  I  must  flee;  yet  I  had  but  three  pound 
in  my  breeches,  nor  dared  return  for  clothes  or  savings.  I  summoned  a 
boy  who  happened  through  the  alley  where  I  hid  and  sent  him  with  the 
money  for  shirt,  hose,  and  shoes;  then  for  an  hour  I  prowled  the  streets, 
debating  what  to  do. 

"By  merest  chance  my  way  led  to  the  posthouse,  at  sight  of  which  I 
could  not  but  weep  to  think  of  your  straits,,  that  were  but  little  happier 
than  my  own.  'Twas  here  I  hit  upon  my  plan,  sir,  whereof  the  substance 
was,  that  though  'twas  past  my  power  to  help  ye,  yet  in  your  misery  ye 
might  ransom  me.  That  is  to  say,  ye'd  bought  your  passage  to  Maryland 
and  could  not  sail;  who  knew  but  what  ye'd  bought  your  seat  to  Plym- 
outh as  well?  Think  not  I  planned  to  cheat  thee,  sir!  'Twas  but  to  Plymouth 


[  2l8  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

I  meant  to  go,  to  save  my  life,  and  vowed  to  make  ye  restitution  when 
I  could.  I  did  not  doubt  I  could  play  the  poet,  though  de'il  the  bit  I  know 
of  verse,  for  I've  a  gift  for  mime,  sir,  if  I  may  say  so.  Aye,  many's  the  hour 
at  St.  Giles  I've  kept  the  folk  in  stitches  by  'personating  old  Mrs.  Twigg, 
with  her  crooked  walk  and  her  voice  like  an  ironmonger's!  And  once  in 
Pudding  Lane,  sir,  I  did  Ralph  Birdsall  to  such  a  turn,  my  Betsy  wept 
a-laughing,  nor  could  contain  herself  but  let  fly  on  the  sheets  for  very 
mirth.  The  only  rub  was,  should  someone  challenge  me  I'd  naught  where- 
with to  prove  my  case.  For  that  reason,  though  I  need  not  say  how  much 
I  loathed  to  do't,  I  called  for  quill  and  paper  in  the  posthouse,  sir,  and 
as  best  my  memory  would  serve  me  I  writ  a  copy  of  your  commission,  the 
which  ye'd  showed  me  ere  ye  left " 

At  this  point,  Ebenezer,  who  had  with  the  greatest  difficulty  contained 
his  mounting  astonishment  and  wrath  as  Bertrandrs  tale  unfolded,  cried 
out,  ''Devil  take  it,  man,  is  there  aught  of  infamy  you'd  stop  at?  Steal 
passage,  take  name  and  rank,  and  even  forge  commission!  Let  me  see  it!" 

"  Tis  but  a  miserable  approximation,  sir,"  the  servant  said.  "I've  little 
wit  in  the  matter  of  language  and  had  no  seal  to  seal  it  with."  He  drew 
a  paper  from  his  coat  and  proffered  it  reluctantly,  "  Twould  fool  no  man, 
I'm  certain." 

"Tis  not  Lord  Baltimore's  hand,"  Ebenezer  admitted,  scanning  the 
paper.  "But  i'faith!"  he  added  on  reading  it.  "The  wording  is  the  same, 
from  first  to  last!  And  you  say  'twas  done  from  memory?  Recite  it  for  me, 
then!" 

"Marry,  sir,  I  cannot;  'twas  some  time  past." 

"The  first  line,  then.  Surely  you  recall  the  first  line  oft?  No?  Then  thou'rt 
an  arrant  liar!"  He  flung  the  paper  to  the  floor.  "Where  is  my  commission, 
that  you  copied  this  from?" 

"  Tore  God,  sir,  I  do  not  know." 

"And  yet  you  copied  from  it  in  the  posthouse?" 

"Ye  force  the  truth  from  me,  sir,"  Bertrand  said,  shamefaced.  "  Twas  in- 
deed from  the  original  I  copied,  and  not  from  memory;  neither  was  it  in 
the  posthouse  I  did  the  deed,  but  in  your  room,  sir,  the  day  ye  left.  The 
commission  was  on  your  writing  table,  where  ye'd  forgot  it;  I  found  it 
there  as  I  was  packing  your  trunk,  and  so  moved  was  I  by  the  grandness 
oft  I  made  a  copy,  thinking  to  show  my  Betsy  what  a  master  I'd  lost 
The  original  I  put  in  your  trunk  and  carried  to  the  posthouse." 

"Then  why  this  sneak  and  subterfuge?"  the  poet  demanded.  ""Why  did 
you  not  admit  it  from  the  start?  Thank  Heaven  the  thing's  not  lost!" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  219  ] 

Bertrand  made  no  reply,  but  scowled  more  miserably  than  ever. 
'Well?  Surely  'tis  in  my  trunk  this  instant,  is't  not?  Why  did  you  lie?" 

"I  put  the  paper  in  your  trunk,  sir/'  Bertrand  said,  "on  the  very  top 
of  all,  and  fetched  your  baggage  to  the  posthouse;  nor  thought  I  more  oft 
till  the  hour  I've  told  of,  when,  to  save  my  life,  I  vowed  to  'personate  my 
way  to  Plymouth.  Then  I  recalled  my  copy  and  luckily  found  it  where  it 
had  been  since  the  hour  I  forged  it— folded  in  quarters  in  my  pocket.  To 
try  myself  I  marched  into  the  posthouse,  and  to  the  first  wight  I  met  I  said, 
Tm  Ebenezer  Cooke,  my  man,  Poet  and  Laureate  of  die  Province  of 
Maryland:  please  direct  me  to  the  Plymouth  coach/" 

"The  brassl" 

Bertrand  shrugged:  the  Burlingamelike  gesture  was  the  more  startling 
performed  as  it  was  in  Burlingame's  port-purple  coat.  "Twas  daring 
enough,"  he  admitted.  "The  fellow  only  stared  and  mumbled  something 
about  the  coach  being  gone.  I  feared  he  saw  through  my  imposture,  and 
the  more  when  a  stout  fierce  fellow  in  black  came  up  behind  and  said, 
Thou'rt  the  poet  Cooke,  ye  say?  Thou'rt  a  knave  and  liar,  for  the  poet 
Cooke  they  fetched  to  jail  not  two  hours  past/  " 

"To  jail!"  Ebenezer  cried.  "What  is  this  talk  of  jail,  man,  that  ye  return 
to  here  again?" 

"  'Twas  what  Fd  feared,  sir:  that  wretch  named  Bragg,  that  would  have 
the  law  on  ye  for  some  false  matter  of  a  ledger-book.  'Twas  only  inasmuch 
as  I  knew  ye  were  past  rescue,  as  I  say,  sir,  that  I  presumed  to  use  your 
passage " 

"Stay!  Stay!  One  moment,  now!"  Ebenezer  protested.  "There  is  a  mar- 
velous discrepancy  here!" 

"A  discrepancy,  sir?" 

"It  wants  no  barrister  to  see  it,"  the  poet  said.  "Twas  you  set  Bragg  on 
my  trail,  was't  not,  when  you  found  him  in  my  room?  And  'twas  only  that 
you  knew  I'd  be  long  gone,  you  said.  How  is't  then " 

"Prithee  let  me  finish,  sir/'  Bertrand  pleaded,  coloring  noticeably.  "Tales 
are  like  tarts,  that  may  be  ugly  on  the  face  of  'em  and  yet  have  a  worth- 
while end.  This  man,  I  say,  declared  ye  were  in  jail— a  fearsome  fellow, 
he  was,  dressed  all  in  black,  with  a  great  black  beard,  and  pistols  in  his 
waist.  And  not  far  behind  him  was  another,  as  like  as  any  twin,  which, 
when  he  joined  the  first,  the  man  I'd  queried  took  fright  and  ran.  As  would 
have  I,  but  for  access  of  fear." 

"They  sound  like  Slye  and  Scurry!" 

"The  very  same,  sir,,  they  called  each  other:  a  pair  of  sharks  as  may  I 


[  220  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

never  meet  again!  Yet  little  I  knew  of  'em  then  but  that  they'd  challenged 
me,  and  so  I  said  straight  out,  the  man  who'd  gone  to  jail  was  an  impostor, 
and  jailed  for  his  imposture,  and  I  was  the  real  Ebenezer  Cooke.  To 
prove  it  I  displayed  my  false  commission,  scarce  daring  to  hope  they'd  be 
persuaded.  Yet  persuaded  they  were,  and  even  humbled,  as  I  thought;  they 
whispered  together  for  a  while  and  then  insisted  I  ride  to  Plymouth  with 
them,  inasmuch  as  the  regular  coach  was  gone.  I  took  the  boon  right 
readily,  fearing  any  minute  to  see  Ralph  Birdsall  and  his  sword " 

"And  fell  into  their  hands/'  Ebenezer  said  with  relish.  "By  Heav'n, 
'tis  no  more  than  your  desertl" 

Bertrand  shuddered.  "Say  not  so,  sir!  Hi,  what  a  pair  of  fiends!  No  sooner 
were  we  on  the  road  than  their  intent  came  clear:  they  were  lieutenants 
of  one  Colonel  Coode  of  Maryland,  that  hath  designs  upon  the  govern- 
ment, and  had  been  sent  by  him  to  waylay  Eben  Cooke— which  quany 
fearing  bagged  by  other  hunters,  they  were  the  more  ready  to  believe 
me  him.  What  designs  they  had  on  you,  sir,  I  could  not  guess,  but  certain 
'twas  not  to  beg  a  verse  of  ye,  for  they  held  each  a  pistol  ready,  and  left 
no  doubt  I  was  their  prisoner.  Twas  not  till  Plymouth  I  escaped;  one  of 
the  twain  went  to  see  how  fared  their  ship,  and  the  other  wandering  some 
yards  off  to  rouse  the  stableboy  at  the  King  o'  the  Seas,  I  leaped  round 
a  corner  and  burrowed  into  a  pile  of  hay,  where  I  hid  till  they  gave  o'er 
the  search  and  went  inside  for  rum." 

"Take  them  no  farther,"  Ebenezer  said;  "I  know  the  test  of  their  his- 
tory. 'Twas  in  the  hay,  then,  that  Burlingame  found  you?" 

"Aye,  sir,  I  heard  the  sound  of  people  and  trembled  for  my  life,  the 
more  for  that  their  footsteps  came  toward  me.  Anon  I  felt  a  great  thrashing 
weight  upon  me,  and  thinking  I  was  jumped  by  Slye  or  Scurry,  I  gave  a 
great  hollow  and  grappled  as  best  I  could  to  save  my  life,  Twas  the  barmaid 
from  the  tavern  I  found  opposing  me— coats  high,  drawers  low,  and  ripe 
for  rogering— and  Miss  Anna's  beau  stood  by,  laughing  mightily  at  the 
combat." 

"Enough,  enough!  How  is't  you  did  not  know  each  other,  if  as  you 
say  you'd  seen  him  at  the  posthouse?" 

"Not  know  him?  I  knew  him  at  once,  sir  and  he  me,  and  'twere  hard 
to  tell  which  was  the  more  amazed.  Yet  he  asked  me  nothing  of  my 
business  there,  but  straightway  offered  to  change  clothes  with  me— I  dare- 
say he  feared  my  telling  tales  to  his  Miss  Anna " 

"Enough/"  Ebenezer  ordered  again. 

"No  harm  intended,  sir;  no  injury  meant.  In  any  case  I  was  pleased  to 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  221  ] 

make  the  change,  not  alone  in  that  I  had  the  better  of  the  bargain  but 
also  to  escape  from  Slye  and  Scurry.  Yet  I  went  no  farther  than  the  door 
of  the  King  o'  the  Seas  ere  they  spied  me  from  inside  and  gave  chase; 
'twas  only  by  hiding  behind  some  baggage  on  a  pier  that  I  eluded  them. 
Then  fancy  my  amazement,  sir,  when  I  saw  'twas  your  own  trunk  had 
saved  me,  that  I'd  packed  myself  not  long  before!  I  knew— alas!— ye  were 
not  there  to  claim  it  and  so  resolved  to  carry  my  poor  deception  one  step 
farther;  to  board  your  ship,  sir,  with  your  own  commission,  and  hide  till 
I  deemed  it  safe  to  go  ashore.  To  that  end,  so  soon  as  I  was  safe  aboard 
I  unlocked  your  trunk " 

'What  say  you?" 

"Ye'd  left  one  key  with  me  in  London,  what  time  I  packed  ye.  But 
I  found  the  paper  gone,  sir." 

"Gone/  Great  heavens,  man,  whither?" 

"Lost,  strayed,  or  stolen,  sir,"  said  Bertrand.  "  Twas  on  the  very  top  I'd 
laid  it,,  yet  now  'twas  nowhere  in  the  trunk.  I  had  to  use  my  false  commission 
instead,  which  happily  convinced  'em  for  all  it  had  no  seal.  I  told  the 
Captain  to  keep  watch  for  my  pursuers.  The  rest  ye  know." 

Ebenezer  paced  the  cabin  wildly,  his  finger  ends  pressed  against  his 
temples. 

"When  word  came  to  me  that  some  stranger  was  aboard  that  called  him- 
self the  Laureate,  then  swore  he  was  the  Laureate's  man,"  Bertrand  con- 
cluded, watching  his  master  anxiously,  "I  durst  not  leave  this  room.  If  t 
was  Slye  or  Scurry  or  Coode  himself,  I  would  be  murthered  on  the  spot. 
I  had  no  choice  but  to  stand  here,  sick  at  heart,  and  watch  the  ship  get 
under  way.  The  officer  then  said  I  must  inspect  ye,  and  so  sure  was  I  of 
death,  I  could  not  turn  from  the  window  till  I  heard  your  voice.  How  is't 
thou'rt  not  in  jail,  sir?" 

"Jail!"  Ebenezer  said  with  impatience.  "I  never  was  in  jail!" 

"Then  who  is't  took  your  place?  Slye  vowed  that  when  he  and  Scurry 
searched  the  posthouse  for  ye,  they  heard  on  every  side  of  a  man  who'd 
been  arrested  not  ten  minutes  before  and  carried  off  to  jail  None  knew 
what  crime  he'd  done,  but  all  knew  his  name  was  Eben  Cooke,,  for  the 
man  had  strode  about  declaring  name  and  rank  to  the  world." 

"No  doubt  a  second  impostor,"  the  poet  replied,  "bent  on  whoring  my 
office  to  his  purpose.  May  he  rot  in  irons  for  ever  and  aye!  As  for  you,  since 
'twas  not  among  your  plans  to  make  a  voyage,  you'll  sail  no  farther " 

'Te'll  have  'em  fetch  me  ashore?"  Bertrand  went  to  his  knees  in  grati- 


[  222  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

tilde.  "Ah  marry,  what  a  place  in  Heav'n  is  thine,  sitl  What  an  injustice 
I  did  ye,  to  fear  ye'd  not  have  pity  on  my  case!" 

"On  the  contrary;  'tis  perhaps  the  one  injustice  you  did  me  not." 

"Sir?" 

Ebenezer  turned  away  to  the  stern  windows.  "Twere  well  to  say  a 
prayer  before  you  rise;  I  mean  you'll  swim  for't." 

"Nay!  Twere  the  end  o'  me,  sir!" 

"As't  were  of  me/7  Ebenezer  said,  "had  you  not  owned " 

He  stopped  short:  master  and  man  measured  each  other  for  an  instant, 
then  sprang  together  for  the  false  commission  on  the  floor— which  laying 
hold  of  at  the  same  instant,  they  soon  destroyed  in  their  struggle. 

"No  matter,"  Ebenezer  said.  "  Twill  take  but  a  minute  with  the  twain 
of  us  for  any  fool  to  judge  which  is  the  poet  and  which  the  lying  knave/' 

"Think  better  oft!"  Bertrand  warned.  "  Tis  not  my  wish  to  harm  ye, 
sir,  but  if  it  comes  to  that,  there'll  be  no  judgment;  I've  but  to  send  for 
the  man  that  fetched  ye  here  and  swear  I  know  ye  not." 

"What!  You'll  threaten  me  too,  that  have  already  set  the  law  upon  me, 
robbed  me  of  name  and  passage,  and  well-nigh  caused  my  death?  A  pretty 
fellow!" 

For  all  his  wrath,  however,  Ebenezer  was  not  blind  to  the  uncertainty 
of  his  position;  he  spoke  no  more  of  summoning  an  officer  to  judge  between 
them  nor  did  he  further  question  Bertrand's  tale,  though  several  details  of 
it  failed  to  satisfy  him.  The  valet  had  declared,  for  example,  that  only  the 
certainty  of  his  master's  departure  had  allowed  him  with  clear  conscience 
to  send  Bragg's  bullies  to  the  posthouse;  yet  it  was  his  certainty  of  Eben- 
ezer's  arrest  that  had  allowed  him,  before  entering  the  posthouse  again, 
to  conceive  the  notion  of  posing  as  Laureate*  How  was  this  discrepancy 
to  be  accounted  for?  And  how  could  the  commission  have  disappeared,  if 
master  and  servant  owned  the  only  keys  to  the  trunk?  And  what  had  the 
wretch  to  gain  by  his  lying  tale  of  Anna  and  Henry  together  in  the  post- 
house?  Or  if  it  were  no  lie But  here  his  reeling  fancy  failed  him. 

"You  merit  no  lenience,"  he  said  in  a  calmer  tone,  "but  so  far  shall 
I  let  mercy  temper  justice,  I'll  speak  no  more  of  casting  you  astern.  Haply 
'twill  be  punishment  enough  to  spend  the  balance  of  your  years  in  Mary- 
land, since  you  fear  it  so.  For  the  rest,  confess  and  apologize  to  the  whole 
ship's  company  at  once,  and  let  future  merit  atone  for  past  defect." 

"Thou'rt  a  Solomon  for  judgment,"  Bertrand  cried,  "and  a  Christian 
saint  for  mercy!" 
"Let  us  go,  then,  and  have  done." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  223  ] 

"At  once,  at  once,  sir,"  the  valet  agreed,  "if  ye  think  it  safe " 

"How  should  it  be  otherwise?" 

"Tis  plain,  sir,"  Bertrand  explained,  "there's  more  to  this  post  of  yours 
than  meets  the  eye.  I  know  not  what  passed  'twixt  you  and  Lord  Baltimore, 

nor  is't  my  business  to  enquire  what  secret  cause  ye've  sworn  to  further " 

Here  Ebenezer  let  forth  such  a  torrent  of  abuse  that  his  valet  had  need 
to  pause  before  continuing.  "All  in  the  world  I  mean,  sir,  is  that  your 
common  garden  laureate  is  not  set  upon  by  knaves  and  murtherers  at  every 
corner  as  I  have  been,  nor  is't  a  mere  distaste  for  rhyme,  methinks,  that 
drives  this  villain  Coode  to  seek  ye  out.  For  aught  we  know  he  may  be 
on  this  ship;  certain  he's  aboard  the  fleet,  and  Slye  and  Scurry  as  well " 

"Nay,  not  they,"  Ebenezer  said,  "but  haply  Coode."  He  described  Bur- 
Kngame's  strategem  briefly.  "  'Twas  Henry  bought  a  passage  in  your  name," 
he  explained,  "and  left  the  scoundrel  stranded  with  the  fleet." 

"  Twill  but  inflame  him  more,"  said  Bertrand,  "and  who  knows  what 
confederates  might  be  with  him?  Belike  he  hath  a  spy  on  every  boat!" 

"  'Twere  not  impossible,  from  what  I've  heard  of  him,"  Ebenezer  ad- 
mitted, "But  what's  the  aim  of  all  this  talk?  Think  you  to  persuade  me 
into  skulking  caution  and  not  to  tell  my  office  to  the  world?  Is't  to  weasel 
out  of  penance  and  confession?" 

Bertrand  protested  vigorously  against  such  misconstruction  of  his  motives. 
"Confess  I  shall,"  he  declared,  "right  readily,  and  mark  it  light  penance 
for  my  imposture— which  pray  recall  I  practiced  for  no  vicious  ends,  but 
to  save  that  part  which  makes  man  man.  Yet  penance  ne'er  healed  wound, 
sir."  He  went  on  to  praise  the  bounteous  and  forgiving  nature  of  his  master 
and  to  upbraid  himself  for  repaying  kindness  with  deceit— not  forgetting 
to  justify  once  more  his  imposture  and  to  review,  apropos  of  nothing,  sun- 
dry evidences  of  the  high  esteem  and  confidence  in  which  old  Andrew 
held  him.  At  length  he  concluded  by  maintaining  that  what  he  sought 
was  not  mere  penance  but  restitution;  some  means  wherewith  to  atone 
for  what  humiliation  and  discomfort  his  wholly  innocent  imposture  had 
occasioned  the  noblest  master  poor  servingman  ever  served. 

"And  what  means  is't  you  have  in  mind?"  the  poet  asked  warily. 

"Only  to  risk  my  life  for  yours,"  the  valet  said.  "Whatever  the  cause  you 
serve " 

"Enough,  damn  you!  I  serve  the  cause  of  Poetry,,  and  no  other." 

"What  I  meant,  sir,  is  that  whatever  Lord  Baltimore That  is  to 

say " 

"'Sblood,  then  say  it!" 


[  224  ]  J^E   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 


"Since  I  have  played  ye  to  your  hurt,"  said  Bertrand,  "let  me  play  ye 
to  your  profit.  Let  me  dare  the  rascal  Coode  in  your  name,  sir.  If  he  do 
me  in,  'twill  be  my  just  desert  and  your  salvation;  if  not,  there's  always 
time  for  clean  confession  when  we  land.  What  say  ye?" 

The  plan  so  astonished  Ebenezer  that  he  could  not  at  once  find  language 
strong  enough  to  scourge  the  planner  for  his  effrontery,  and—  alas!—  the 
moment  till  he  found  his  tongue  discovered  the  scheme's  unquestionable 
merits.  The  Laureateship  was  in  truth  a  perilous  post—  of  that  he'd  proof 
enough  by  now,  though  u>/iy  he'd  still  small  notion;  John  Coode  was  un- 
deniably aboard  the  fleet  and  doubtless  wroth  at  having  been  duped; 
Burlingame,  despite  his  fanciful  last  assurances,  was  not  on  hand  to  protect 
him.  Finally  and  most  persuasively,  the  poet  still  shuddered  at  his  morning's 
escape  from  Slye  and  Scurry  at  the  King  o*  the  Seas;  only  the  appearance 
of  Bertrand  in  the  street  had  saved  his  life, 

"If  'twill  ease  your  conscience,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  cannot  say  ye  nay, 
at  least  for  the  nonce—  'twill  give  me  time  to  write  some  verse  below.  But 
Coode  or  no  Coode,  Bertrand,  I  swear  you  this:  'tis  the  last  time  I'll  be  any 
man  whatever  save  Eben  Cooke.  D'you  hear?" 

"Very  good,  sir/'  Bertrand  nodded.  "Shall  I  send  word  to  the  Captain?" 

"Word?  Ah,  yes—  that  I'm  thy  Bertrand,  a  fop  that  makes  pretense  to 
glory.  Aye,  spread  the  word!" 


12:    THE  LAUREATE  DISCOURSES  ON  GAMES  OF 
CHANCE  AND  DEBATES  THE  RELATIVE  GENTILITY  OF 
VALETS  AND  POETS  LAUREATE.  BERTRAND  SETS 
FORTH  THE  ANATOMY  OF  SOPHISTICATION  AND 
DEMONSTRATES  HIS  THESIS 


WHEN   THE  POSEIDON,   RUNNING   BEFORE   A   FRESH  BREEZE   FROM   THE 

northeast,  left  Lizard  Point  behind  and  in  company  with  the  rest  of  the 
fleet  set  her  course  southwest  to  the  Azores,  life  on  shipboard  settled  into 
its  wonted  order.  The  passengers  had  little  or  nothing  to  do:  aside  from 
the  three  daily  messes  and,  for  those  who  had  the  ingredients  with  them, 
the  intervening  teas,  the  only  other  event  of  the  normal  day  was  the  an- 
nouncement of  the  estimated  distance  traveled  during  the  past  twenty-four 
hours.  Among  the  gentlemen  a  good  deal  of  money  changed  hands  on 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  225  ] 

this  announcement,  and  since  servants,  when  idle,  can  become  every  bit 
as  bored  as  their  masters,  they  too  made  bets  whenever  they  could  afford  to. 

The  wagering,  as  a  rule,  was  done  at  the  second  mess,  since  the  runs 
were  computed  from  noon  to  noon.  Upon  arising  in  the  morning,  every 
man  sought  out  some  member  of  the  crew,  to  inquire  about  the  progress 
of  the  night  past;  all  morning  the  company  watched  the  wind,  and  finally 
made  their  estimations.  At  midday  the  Captain  himself  mounted  the  poop 
deck,  quadrant  in  hand,  and  on  notice  from  the  first  mate  that  it  was 
twelve  o'clock  sharp,  made  the  traditional  "noon  sight"  for  longitude;  re- 
tiring then  to  his  quarters  he  computed  latitude  by  dead  reckoning  from 
the  compass  course  and  the  estimated  distance  run  since  the  last  measured 
elevation  of  the  polestar  before  dawn—which  crucial  figure  was  itself  reck- 
oned from  data  in  the  ship's  log  concerning  the  direction  and  velocity  of 
the  wind,  the  height  and  direction  of  the  seas,  and  the  making,  taking  in, 
and  setting  of  the  sails,,  together  with  the  Captain's  own  knowledge  of  the 
direction  and  velocity  of  ocean  currents  in  the  general  area  at  that  particular 
time  of  year,  and  of  the  ability  of  each  of  his  officers  to  get  the  most 
out  of  the  men  on  his  watch  and  the  ship  itself.  Since  even  under  full 
sail  the  Poseidon  rarely  made  more  than  six  miles  per  hour  and  never  more 
than  eight— in  other  words,  a  fast  walk— the  daily  run  could  be  anything 
from  zero,  given  a  calm  (or,  given  stormy  headwinds,  even  a  negative 
quantity),  up  to  one  hundred  ninety-two  miles—which  theoretical  maxi- 
mum, however,  she  never  managed  to  attain.  Having  computed  latitude  and 
longitude,  the  Captain  was  able  to  plot  the  Poseidon's  estimated  position 
on  his  chart  with  parallel  rule  and  dividers  and,  again  allowing  for  winds, 
currents,  the  leeway  characteristics  of  his  vessel,  and  compass  variation, 
he  could  give  the  helmsman  a  corrected  course  to  steer  until  further  notice. 
Finally  he  would  enter  the  main  cabin  for  his  midday  meal  with  the  ladies 
and  gentlemen  among  his  passengers,  who  in  the  meantime  had  pooled 
their  wagers  and  their  estimates  and,  after  announcing  the  official  figure, 
he  would  bid  the  mate  search  out  the  closest  approximation  from  among 
the  folded  bits  of  paper  and  identify  the  winner  of  the  day. 

The  basic  gamble  was  the  pool— five  to  ten  shillings  a  head,  usually,  for 
the  gentlemen  and  ladies;  a  shilling  or  less  for  the  servants— but  the  more 
ambitious  speculators  soon  contrived  a  variety  of  side  bets:  a  maximum 
or  minimum  figure,  for  example,  could  be  adjusted  for  virtually  any  odds 
desired,  or  one  could  gamble  on  a  maximum  or  minimum  differential  be- 
tween each  day's  run  and  the  next  one.  As  the  five  days  passed  and  boredom 
increased,  the  sport  grew  more  elaborate,  the  stakes  higher:  one  really  im- 


[226]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

aginative  young  minister  named  George  Tubman,  suspected  by  the  other 
passengers  of  being  a  professional  gambler  in  disguise,  devised  a  sliding- 
odds  system  for  accepting  daily  bets  on  the  date  of  raising  Flores  and  Corvo 
—the  westerly  isknds  of  the  Azores— a  system  whereby  the  announcement 
of  each  day's  run  altered  the  standing  odds  against  each  projected  date- 
of-landfall  according  to  principles  best  known  to  the  clever  young  man 
who  computed  them,  and  one  could  in  the  light  of  each  day's  progress 
make  new  wagers  to  reinforce  or  compensate  for  the  heightened  or  dimin- 
ished probability  of  one's  previous  wagers  on  the  same  event.  This  system 
had  the  advantages  of  cumulative  interest  and  a  tendency  towards 
geometrically  increasing  stakes,  for  when  a  man  saw  his  whole  previous 
speculative  investment  imperiled  by  an  unusually  long  or  short  day's  run, 
he  was  naturally  inclined  to  cover  himself  by  betting,  on  what  now  seemed 
a  more  promising  date,  an  amount  equal  to  or  exceeding  the  sum  of  his 
prior  wagers;  and  since,  of  course,  each  day  brought  the  Poseidon  closer 
to  a  landfall  and  narrowed  the  range  of  speculation,  the  odds  on  the  most 
likely  dates  lowered  sharply,  with  the  result  that  a  man  might  invest  five 
pounds  at  the  going  odds  on  a  currently  popular  date  in  order  to  cover  ten 
shillings  previously  wagered  on  a  now  unlikely  one,  only  to  find  two  or  three 
days  later  that  a  third,  much  larger,  bet  was  required  to  make  good 
the  second,  or  the  first  and  second  combined,  and  so  forth.  The  excitement 
grew  proportionately;  even  the  Captain,  though  he  shook  his  head  at  the 
ruinous  size  of  the  stakes,  followed  the  betting  with  unconcealed  interest, 
and  the  crew  members  themselves,  who,  of  course,  would  not  have  been 
permitted  to  join  in  the  game  even  if  they  could  have  afforded  it,  adopted 
favorites  among  the  bettors,  gave,  or  when  possible  sold,  "confidential"  in- 
formation on  the  ship's  progress  to  interested  parties,  made  private  little 
wagers  of  their  own  on  which  of  the  passengers  would  win  the  most  money, 
and  ultimately,  in  order  to  protect  their  own  bets,  volunteered  or  accepted 
bribes  to  convey  false  information  to  bettors  other  than  the  one  on  whom 
their  money  was  riding. 

For  his  part,  Ebenezer  wasted  little  interest  at  the  outset  on  this  activity, 
to  which  his  attention  had  been  called  early  in  the  first  week  of  the  voyage. 
One  sparkling  April  morning  Bertrand  had  approached  him  where  he  stood 
happily  in  the  bow  watching  seagulls  dive  for  fish,  and  had  asked,  in  a 
respectful  tone,  his  general  opinion  of  gambling.  In  good  spirits  because 
of  the  weather  and  a  commendable  breakfast,  and  pleased  to  be  thus  con- 
sulted, Ebenezer  had  explored  the  subject  cheerfully  and  at  length. 

'To  ask  a  man  what  he  thinks  of  gambling  is  as  much  as  to  ask  him  what 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  227  ] 

he  thinks  of  life/'  was  one  of  the  positions  he  experimented  with.  "Doth 
not  the  mackerel  gamble,  each  time  he  rises,  that  yonder  gulls  won't  snatch 
him  up,  and  the  gulls  make  wager  that  they  will?  Are  we  not  gamblers 
all,  that  match  wits  with  the  ocean  on  this  ship  of  wood?  Nay,  life  itself 
is  but  a  lifelong  gamble,  is't  not?  From  the  moment  of  conception  our 
life  is  on  the  line;  every  meal,  every  step,  every  turning  is  a  dare  to  death; 
all  men  are  the  fools  of  chance  save  the  suicide,  and  even  he  must  wager 
that  there  is  no  Hell  to  fry  in.  Who  loves  life,  then,  perforce  loves  gambling, 
for  he  is  Dame  Chance's  conquest.  Moreover,  every  gambler  is  an  optimist, 
for  no  man  wagers  who  thinks  to  lose." 

Bertrand  beamed.  'Then  ye  favor  games  of  chance?" 

"Ah,  ah/'  the  Laureate  cautioned.  He  cocked  his  head,  waggled  a  fore- 
finger, and  quoted  a  proverb  which  unaccountably  made  him  blush:  "There 
are  more  ways  to  the  woods  than  one.  It  could  as  well  be  argued  that  the 
gambler  is  a  pessimistic  atheist,  inasmuch  as  he  counts  man's  will  as  naught. 
To  wager  is  to  allow  the  sovereignty  of  chance  in  all  events,  which  is 
as  much  as  to  say,  God  hath  no  hand  in  things." 

"Then  ye  don't  look  kindly  on't  after  all?" 

"Stay,  not  so  fast:  one  could  as  readily  say  the  contrary— that  your 
Hobbesian  materialist  should  never  be  a  gambler,  for  no  man  gambles 
that  doth  not  believe  in  luck,  and  to  believe  in  luck  is  to  deny  blind  chance 
and  cold  determinism,  as  well  as  the  materialist  order  of  things.  Who 
says  Yea  to  Luck,  in  short,  had  as  well  say  Yea  to  God,  and  conversely." 

"In  Heav'n's  name,  then!"  Bertrand  cried,  rather  less  respectfully  than 
at  first.  "What  do  ye  think  of  gambling— yea  or  nay?" 

But  Ebenezer  would  not  be  pressed.  "  Tis  one  of  those  questions  that 
have  many  sides,"  he  said  blithely,  and  by  way  of  indicating  that,  for  the 
present  at  least,  he'd  nothing  farther  to  say  on  the  subject  turned  his  atten- 
tion again  to  the  gulls:  Contrary  to  his  expectations,, his  position  aboard 
the  Poseidon  was  turning  out  to  be  by  no  means  altogether  unpleasant. 
He  had  contrived  to  establish  himself  as  being  not  another  common  servant 
but  a  kind  of  amanuensis  to  the  Laureate,  in  which  capacity  he  was  per- 
mitted access  to  the  quarter-deck  at  Bertrand's  side  and  limited  converse 
with  the  gentlemen;  there  was  no  need  to  conceal  his  education,  since 
positions  of  the  sort  he  pretended  to  were  frequently  filled  by  destitute 
scholars,  and  by  making  Bertrand  out  to  be  the  lofty,  taciturn  variety  of 
genius,  he  hoped  to  be  able  to  speak  for  him  more  often  than  not  and 
thus  protect  their  disguise.  Moreover,  he  could  devote  as  much  time  as 
he  chose  to  his  notebook  and  even  borrow  books  from  the  gentlemen  pas- 


f  228  ]  THE.  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

sengers  without  arousing  suspicion;  an  amanuensis  was  expected  to  busy 
himself  with  ink,  paper,  and  books,  especially  when  his  employer  was  a  poet 
laureate.  In  short,  it  became  ever  more  clear  to  him  as  the  voyage  progressed 
that  his  role  offered  most  of  the  privileges  of  his  true  identity  and  none  of 
the  dangers,  and  he  counted  the  disguise  among  his  happiest  inspirations. 
While  the  servants  relieved  their  ennui  with  gambling  and  gossip  about 
their  masters  and  mistresses,  and  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  with  gambling 
and  gossip  about  one  another,  Ebenezer  passed  the  hours  agreeably  in  the 
company  of  his  own  work  or  that  of  celebrated  authors  of  the  past,  with 
whom,  since  his  commission,  he  felt  a  strong  spiritual  kinship. 

Indeed,  the  only  thing  he  really  found  objectionable,  once  his  initial 
embarrassment  was  forgotten  and  he  had  grown  accustomed  to  his  position, 
was  mealtimes.  For  one  thing,  the  food  was  not  what  he  had  imagined:  the 
last  entry  in  his  notebook,  made  just  before  he  fell  asleep  in  the  stable 
of  the  King  o'  the  Seas,  had  been: 

You  ask,  What  eat  our  merry  Band 
En  Route  to  lovely  MARYLAND? 
I  answer.  Ne'er  were  such  Delights 
As  met  our  Sea-sharp*  d  Appetites 
E'er  serv'd  to  Jove  and  Junos  Breed 
By  Vulcan  and  by  Ganymede* 

To  which,  during  his  very  first  day  as  Bertrand's  amanuensis,  he  had  ap- 
pended: 

The  Finest  from  two  Hemispheres, 
From  roasted  Beef  to  Quarter1  d  Deers; 
The  Best  of  new  and  antick  Worlds, 
Fine  curry7  d  Lamb  and  basted  Squirrek. 
We  wash'd  all  down  with  liquid  cheer — 
Barbados  Rum  and  English  Beer. 
'Twere  vain  to  seek  a  nobler  Feast 
In  legend' d  West  or  story' d  East, 
Than  this  our  plenteous  Shipboard  Store 
Provided  fey  LORD  BALTIMORE, 

This  even  though  he  had  in  fact  seen  nothing  at  either  breakfast  or  dinner 
more  exotic  than  eggs,  fresh  veal,  and  a  few  indifferently  prepared  vegetables. 
But  three  days  sufficed  to  exhaust  the  Poseidon's  store  of  every  perishable 
foodstuff;  on  the  fourth  appeared  instead,  to  Ebenezer's  unhappy  surprise, 
the  usual  fare  of  sailors  and  sea-travelers:  a  weekly  ration  of  seven  pounds 
of  bread  or  ship  biscuit  for  master  and  man  alike,  with  butter  scarce  enough 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [229] 

to  disguise  its  tastelessness;  half  a  pound  of  salt  pork  and  dried  peas  per 
man  each  mess  for  five  days  out  of  the  week,  and  on  the  other  two  salt 
beef  instead  of  pork— except  when  the  weather  was  too  foul  for  the  cook 
to  boil  the  kettle,  in  which  case  every  soul  aboard  made  do  for  the  day  with 
a  pound  of  English  cheese  and  dreams  of  home. 

All  this,  however,  was  mere  disillusionment,  the  fault  not  of  Lord  Balti- 
more, the  captain  of  the  Poseidon,  or  the  social  order,  but  merely  of  Eben- 
ezer's own  naivete  or,  as  he  himself  felt  mildly,  not  troubling  to  put  it 
into  words,  of  the  nature  of  Reality,  which  had  failed  to  measure  up  to 
his  expectations.  In  any  case,  though  the  food  grew  no  more  palatable,  he 
soon  became  sufficiently  inured  to  it  not  to  feel  disappointed  between  meals, 
A  more  considerable  objection— which  led  him  one  afternoon  to  profess 
his  discontent  to  Bertrand— was  that  he  had  to  eat  with  the  servants  after 
the  ladies  and  gentlemen  were  finished. 

"Think  not  'tis  the  mere  ignominy  oft,"  he  assured  his  valet  hastily, 
"though  in  truth  they  are  an  uncouth  lot  and  are  forever  making  sport  of 
me.  Tis  you  I  fear  for;  that  you'll  be  drawn  into  talk  at  the  Captain's  table 
and  discover  yourself  for  an  ass.  Thrice  daily  I  wait  for  news  of  your  dis- 
grace, and  despair  of  carrying  the  fraud  to  Maryland!" 

"Ah,  now,  sir,  have  no  fear."  They  were  in  the  ship's  waist,  and  Bertrand 
seemed  less  concerned  with  Ebenezer's  complaint  than  with  watching  a 
young  lady  who  stood  with  the  Captain  by  the  taffrail.  "There's  no  great 
trick  to  this  gentleman  business,  that  I  can  see;  any  man  could  play  the 
part  that  hath  a  ready  wit  and  keeps  his  eyes  and  ears  open." 

"Indeed!  I'd  say  so  much  for  my  disguise,  perhaps;  they  are  no  fools 
you  dine  with,  though,  but  men  of  means  and  breeding." 

But  so  far  from  being  chastened  by  this  remark,  the  valet  actually  chal- 
lenged it,  still  watching  the  maid  more  than  his  master  while  he  talked. 

"Marry,  sir,  none  knows  better  than  your  servant  the  merits  of  wealth 
and  birth/'  he  declared  benignly.  "Yet,  may  I  hang  for't  if  any  man  was 
e'er  more  bright  or  virtuous  for  either."  He  went  on  to  swear  by  all  his 
experience  with  fine  ladies  and  gentlemen,  both  as  their  servant  and  as 
their  peer,  that  no  poor  scullery  maid  among  Ebenezer's  messmates  was 
more  a  hussy  than  yonder  maiden  on  the  poop  deck,  for  example,  whom 
he  identified  as  one  Miss  Lucy  Robotham.  "For  all  her  fine  clothes  and 
fancy  speech,  sir,  she  blushed  not  a  blush  this  noontime  when  the  Captain 
pinched  her  'neath  the  table,  but  smartly  pinched  him  back!  And  not  a 
half  hour  later,  what  time  I  took  her  hand  to  help  her  up  the  stairway, 
what  did  she  do  if  not  make  a  scratching  in  my  palm?  A  whore's  a  whore 


[  2  JO  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

whate'er  her  station"  he  concluded,  "and  a  fool  a  fool  whate'er  his  wealth!9 

Ebenezer  did  not  question  the  verity  of  this  democratic  notion,  but  he 
denied  its  relevance  to  the  problem.  "  Tis  not  character  and  mother  wit 
that  make  your  gentleman,  Bertrand,"  he  said,  adding  the  name  in  order 
to  draw  his  man's  eyes  from  Miss  Robotham.  "  'Tis  manners  and  education. 
By  a  thousand  signs  the  gentleman  knows  his  peer— a  turn  of  phrase,  a 
choice  of  wine,  a  flourish  of  the  quill— and  by  as  many  spies  the  fraud  or 
parvenu.  Be  you  never  so  practiced  at  aping  'em,  'tis  but  a  matter  of  time 
till  they  find  you  out.  A  slip  of  the  tongue,  a  slip  of  the  fork:  any  trifle 
might  betray  you." 

"Aye,"  laughed  the  other,  "but  for  what,  prithee?" 

"Why,  for  not  a  gentleman  'to  the  manner  born/  as't  were!"  Ebenezer 
was  disturbed  by  the  increasing  arrogance  of  his  servant,  who  had  not 
wanted  presumption  to  begin  with.  "How  shall  you  answer  them  book  for 
book,  that  have  no  books  to  your  credit?  How  shall  you  hold  forth  on  the 
new  plays  in  London  or  the  state  of  things  on  the  Continent,  that  have 
not  been  through  a  university?  Your  true  authentic  gentleman  is  gallant 
but  not  a  fop,  witty  but  no  buffoon,  grave  but  not  an  owl,  informed  but 
not  a  pedant— in  sum,  he  hath  of  every  quality  neither  excess  nor  defect, 
but  the  very  Golden  Mean." 

To  which  the  valet  rejoined  with  a  wave  and  a  smile,  "Haply  so,  f  faith, 
haply  so!"  And  might  have  said  more  had  not  Ebenezer,  his  interest  in 
the  matter  fanned  by  his  growing  irritation,  at  once  resumed  his  discourse. 

"And  just  as  the  speech  of  the  gentleman  is  to  the  speech  of  the  crowd 
as  is  the  lark's  song  to  the  rooster's  but  that  of  the  poet  like  an  angel's 
to  the  lark's,  so  the  gentleman  himself  is  a  prince  among  men,  and  the 
poet  should  be  a  prince  among  gentlemen!" 

"Haply  so,  sir,  haply  'tis  so,"  Bertrand  said  again,  and  turning  now  to 
his  master  added,  "But  would  ye  believe  it?  So  wretched  is  this  memory 
of  mine,  that  though  I  wrote  out  your  commission  word  for  word  in  ink, 
and  saw  clear  as  gospel  where  it  caused  a  gentleman  to  be  a  laureate  poet, 
I  cannot  summon  up  the  part  that  makes  your  laureate  be  a  gentleman! 
And  so  miserable  are  these  eyes  and  ears,  they've  tricked  me  into  thinking 
all  the  poets  they  e'er  laid  hold  of— such  as  Masters  Oliver,  Trent,  and 
Merriweather  back  in  London,  to  name  no  farther— that  all  these  rhyming 
wights  have  not  a  Golden  Mean  between  'em,  nor  yet  a  Brass  or  Kitchen- 
copper!  'Sblood,  to  speak  plainly,  they  are  sober  as  jackanapes,  modest  as 
peacocks,  chaste  as  billy  goats,  soft-tongued  as  magpies,  brave  as  church- 
mice,  and  mannerly  as  cats  in  heat!  Your  common,  everyday  valet,  if  I  may 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  231  ] 

say  so,  is  like  to  be  twice  the  gentleman  your  poet  e'er  could  dream  of! 
Nay,  he's  oft  a  nicer  spirit  than  the  gentleman  his  master,  as  all  the  world 
knows,  and  hath  not  his  peer  for  how  wigs  should  be  powdered  or  guests 
placed  at  table.  'Tis  he  and  not  your  poet,  I  should  say,  that  is  the  gentle- 
man's gentlemanl" 

Ebenezer  was  too  taken  aback  by  this  outburst  to  do  more  than  squint 
his  eyes  and  cry  "Stay!"  But  Bertrand  would  not  be  put  off. 

"Yet  as  for  that,"  he  went  on,  "  'tis  little  stead  my  gentleman's  lore  stands 
me,  now  I'm  a  laureate  poet!  Marry,  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  I've  met, 
so  far  from  seeing  their  poet  as  a  gentleman,  look  on  him  as  a  sort  of  saint, 
trick  ape,  court  fool,  and  gypsy  soothsayer  rolled  in  one.  Your  ladies  tell 
me  things  no  Popish  priest  e'er  heard  of,  fuss  over  me  as  o'er  a  lapdog,  and 
make  me  signs  a  gigolo  would  blush  at;  they  worship  and  contemn  me 
by  turns,  as  half  a  god  and  half  a  traveling  clown.  And  the  gentlemen, 
f  God!  They  think  me  mad  or  dullwitted  out  of  hand;  for  who  but  your 
madman  would  turn  his  hand  to  verse,  save  one  too  numskulled  to  turn 
it  to  money?  In  short  and  in  sum,  sir,  they'd  call  me  no  poet  at  all,  or  a 
poor  one  at  best,  if  e'er  I  should  utter  e'en  a  sensible  remark,  to  say  nothing 
of  a  civil But  think  not  I'm  so  fond  as  that!" 

Ebenezer's  features  roiled,  settling  finally  into  a  species  of  frown.  Really, 
the  fellow  had  got  impossible!  Both  men  were  given  wholly  to  the  argu- 
ment now,  which  had  perforce  to  be  conducted  in  low  tones;  they  faced 
seawards,  their  elbows  on  the  rail  and  their  backs  to  Miss  Robotham,  who 
had  descended  from  the  high  poop  to  the  quarter-deck  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  vessel. 

"I  grant  you  this,"  he  said,  "that  a  prating  coxcomb  of  a  poet  may  be 
guilty  of  boorishness,  as  a  bad  valet  may  be  guilty  of  presumption,  and 
both  may  be  guilty  of  affectation;  I  grant  you  farther  that  the  best  poet 
is  never  in  essence  a  gentleman " 

"Unlike  your  best  valet,"  Bertrand  put  in. 

"As  for  that,"  Ebenezer  said  sharply,  "your  valet  that  outshines  his  mas- 
ter in's  knowledge  of  etiquette  and  fashion  is  like  the  rustic  that  can 
recite  more  Scripture  than  the  theologian:  his  single  gift  betrays  his  limita- 
tions. The  gentleman  valet  and  the  gentleman  poet  have  this  in  common, 
that  their  gentlemanliness  is  for  each  a  mask.  But  the  mask  of  the  valet 
masks  a  varlet,  while  the  poet's  masks  a  godl" 

"Oh  la,  sir!" 

"Let  me  finish!"  Ebenezer's  eyes  were  bright,  his  blond  brows  crooked 
and  beetled.  "Who  more  so  than  the  poet  needs  every  godlike  gift?  He 


[232]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

hath  the  painter's  eye,  the  musician's  ear,  the  philosopher's  mind,  the  bar- 
rister's persuasion;  like  a  god  he  sees  the  secret  souls  of  things,  the  essence 
'neath  their  forms,  their  priviest  connections.  Godlike  he  knows  the  springs 
of  good  and  evil:  the  seed  of  sainthood  in  the  mind  of  murtherer,.  the  worm 
of  lechery  in  the  heart  of  a  nun!  Nay,  farther:  as  the  poet  among  gentle- 
men is  as  a  pearl  among  polished  stones,  so  must  the  Laureate  be  a  diamond 
in  the  pearls,  a  prince  among  poets,  their  flower  and  exemplar— even  a 
prince  among  princes!  To  him  do  kings  commit  their  secular  immortality, 
as  they  commit  their  souls'  to  God!  Small  mystery  that  the  first  verse  was 
religious  and  the  earliest  poets  pagan  priests,  as  some  declare,  or  that  Plato 
calls  the  source  of  poetry  a  divine  madness  like  that  of  seers  and  sibyls.  If 
your  true  poet  strays  from  the  path  of  good  demeanor,  'tis  but  the  mark 
of  his  calling,  an  access  of  the  muse;  yet  the  laureate,  though  in  truth  he 
hath  by  necessity  the  greatest  infusion  of  this  madness,  must  exercise  a 
truly  godlike  self-restraint,  for  he  is  to  men  the  ambassador  and  emblem 
of  his  art:  he  is  obliged  not  only  to  his  muse,  but  to  his  fellow  poets  as 
well." 

Thus  argued  the  Laureate,  whose  esteem  for  his  office  had  risen  with  each 
meal  at  the  servants'  mess;  nor  could  Bertrand's  most  eloquent  defense  of 
the  art  of  valetry  quite  mollify  his  discontent. 

"  'Tis  your  wish,  then,"  Bertrand  asked  finally,  "that  in  all  things  I  play 
the  gentleman?" 
"In  every  way." 

"And  take  their  actions  as  my  model?" 
"Nothing  less." 

"Why,  then,  I  must  beg  some  money  of  ye,  sir,"  he  declared  with  a  laugh, 
and  explained  that  the  last  ten  shillings  of  his  own  small  savings  had  that 
very  noon  been  sacrificed  in  the  distance-run  pool,  in  which  as  a  gentleman 
he  was  absolutely  obliged  to  participate. 

"Ah,  'twas  for  that  you  asked  my  thoughts  on  gambling  some  while  past." 

"I  must  confess  it,"  Bertrand  said,  and  reminded  his  master  that  as  much 

could  be  said  in  favor  of  gambling  as  against  it.  "Besides  which,  sir,  I  must 

keep  on  with't  now  I've  begun,  as  well  to  guard  our  masks  as  to  make  good 

my  losses." 

Now,  Ebenezer  himself  had  in  reserve  only  what  little  he'd  saved  from 
his  years  with  the  merchant  Peter  Paggen,  the  whole  of  which  did  not 
exceed  forty  pounds;  but  at  Bertrand's  insistence  that  no  smaller  sum  would 
do,  he  fetched  out  twenty  from  his  trunk  and,  returning  to  the  rail  where 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  233  ] 

his  proxy  waited,  passed  him  the  money  surreptitiously  with  suitable  ad- 
monitions and  enjoinders. 

At  this  point  their  conversation  was  interrupted  by  that  same  Miss 
Robotham  earlier  aspersed  by  Bertrand;  at  a  thump  on  the  shoulder  they 
turned  to  find  her  standing  close  behind  them,  and  Ebenezer  paled  at  the 
thought  of  what  perhaps  she'd  heard. 

"Madam!"  he  said,  whipping  off  his  hat.  "Your  servant!" 

"  Tis  your  master  I  want/'  the  girl  said,  and  turned  her  back  to  him. 
She  was  a  brown-haired,  excellently  breasted  maid  of  twenty  years  or  so, 
and  though  a  certain  grossness  both  of  manner  and  complexion  showed 
a  rustic,  or  at  least  colonial,  essence  beneath  the  elegance  of  her  dress,  yet 
it  seemed  likely  to  Ebenezer  that  she  was  more  innocent  than  concupiscient. 
In  fact,  for  the  first  time  since  describing  his  plight  to  Henry  in  the  Plym- 
outh coach,  he  was  reminded  of  Joan  Toast,  his  delicate  concern  for  whom 
had  precipitated  his  departure  from  London:  there  was  some  similarity  in 
eyes  and  skin  and  forthright  manner. 

Bertrand,  who  had  made  no  move  to  duplicate  his  master's  courtesy, 
leaned  upon  the  railing  and  regarded  the  visitor  with  a  look  of  crude  ap- 
praisal. Not  daunted  in  the  least,  she  clasped  her  hands  pertly,  bounced  a 
few  times  on  her  heels,  and  said,  "I've  a  literary  question  for  you,  Mr. 
Cooke." 

"Aha,"  said  Bertrand,  and  chucked  her  under  the  chin.  "What  hath  a 
tight  young  piece  like  you  to  do  with  literature,  pray?" 

Ebenezer,  as  alarmed  by  the  request  as  by  his  man's  vulgarity,  made 
haste  to  offer  his  services  instead,  suggesting  that  the  Laureate  should  not 
be  bothered  with  trifling  questions. 

"Then  what's  the  use  of  him?"  the  maid  demanded,  feigning  a  pout. 
Then  she  pursed  her  lips,  arched  her  brows,  and  added  merrily,  still  in 
Bertrand's  direction,  "Am  I  to  suffer  his  lecherous  stares  for  naught?  He'll 
say  what  poet  wrote  Out,  out,  strumpet  Fortune,  and  say't  this  instant, 
else  my  father  shall  know  what  poet  tweaked  me  noontime  where  I  blush 
to  mention  and  left  me  a  bruise  to  show  for't!" 

"The  moral  to  that,"  Bertrand  said,  "is,  Who  hath  skirts  of  straw  must 
needs  stay  clear  of  fire." 

"Moral!  Thou'rt  a  proper  priest  to  speak  of  morals!  Enough  now:  who 
said  Out,  out,  strumpet  Fortune,  Shakespeare  or  Marlowe?  I've  two  bob 
on't  with  Captain  Meech,  that  thinks  him  such  a  scholar." 

Alarmed  lest  his  servant  give  the  game  away,  either  by  his  reply  or  by 


[234]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

his  conduct^  Ebenezer  was  about  to  interrupt  with  the  answer,  but  Bertrand 
gave  him  no  opportunity. 

"Captain  Meech,  is't!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  teasing  frown  and  a  sidelong 
look.  'Til  bet  two  bob  myself  that  for  any  bruise  o'  mine  ye've  three  of 
his  to  sit  on!" 

Miss  Robotham  and  Ebenezer  both  protested,  the  latter  genuinely. 

"No?  Take  a  pound  on't,  then,"  Bertrand  laughed.  "My  pound  against 
your  shilling.  But  mind,  I  must  see  the  proof  myself!"  He  then  asked  what 
poet  she'd  bet  on,  offering  to  swear  that  man  had  penned  the  line. 

"The  Laureate  hath  not  his  peer  for  gallantry,"  Ebenezer  observed  with 
relief  to  Miss  Robotham's  youthful  back.  "And  in  sooth,  if  chivalry  be 
served,  what  matters  it  that  William " 

"Oh  no,"  the  girl  protested,  cutting  him  off,  'Til  have  no  favors  from 
you,  Mister  Laureate,  for  I  well  know  what  'twill  cost  me  in  the  end!  Be- 
sides which,  I  know  the  answer  for  a  fact,  and  want  no  more  than  to  hav't 
confirmed: 

Out,  out,  thou  strumpet  Fortune!  Ml  you  gods 

In  general  synod  take  away  her  power. 

Knock  all  her  spokes  and  fellies  out, 

And  bowl  the  round  nave  down  the  hill  of  Heaven, 

As  low  as  to  the  fiends!" 

"Well  done,  well  done!"  Ebenezer  applauded.  "The  Player  himself 
pleased  Hamlet  no  more  with't  than  you " 

"Marry,  all  those  knaves  and  strumpets!"  Bertrand  exclaimed.  "Whoever 
wrote  it  is  a  randy  wight,  now,  ain't  he?  To  speak  the  truth,  young  lady, 
I  might  have  scratched  it  out  myself,  for  aught  I  know." 

"If  you  please,  ma'am!"  Ebenezer  cried,  aghast  at  Bertrand's  ignorance 
and  the  peril  of  the  situation.  This  time  he  forced  himself  between  them 
and  took  her  arm  as  though  to  lead  her  off.  "You  must  forgive  my  rudeness, 
but  I  cannot  let  you  annoy  the  Laureate  farther!" 

"Annoy  him!"  Miss  Robotham  snatched  her  arm  away.  "Me  annoy  him!'7 

"I  quite  commend  your  interest  in  verse,  which  is  rare  enough  e'en  in 
a  London  girl,"  the  poet  went  on,  speaking  rapidly  and  glancing  about  to 
see  if  others  were  watching  them,  "and  'tis  no  reflection  on  your  rearing 
that  you  presume  so  on  this  great  man's  gallantry,  seeing  thou'rt  from  the 
plantations;  yet  I  must  explain " 

"Hear  the  wretch!"  Miss  Robotham  applied  for  sympathy  first  to  an 
imaginary  audience  and  then  specifically  to  Captain  Meech,  whom  she  saw 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  235  1 

approaching  from  aft,  "I  ask  Mr.  Cooke  a  civil  question,  and  this  fellow 
calls  me  a  mannerless  bumpkin!" 

"Never  mind  him,"  the  Captain  said  good-humoredly,  not  without  a 
brief  scowl  at  the  offender.  "Who  wins  the  bet?" 

"Oh,  everybody  knows  'twas  Shakespeare  wrote  it,"  she  said,  "but  Mr. 
Cooke's  as  great  a  tease  as  you:  he  swears  'twas  he  himself." 

"Grand  souls  are  ever  wont  to  speak  in  epigrams,"  Ebenezer  explained 
desperately.  "Haply  it  seemed  a  mere  tease  on  the  face  oft,  but  underneath 
'tis  deep  enough  a  thought:  the  Laureate  means  that  one  great  poet  feels 
such  kinship  with  another,  in's  the  service  of  the  Muse,  'tis  as  if  Will  Shakes- 
peare and  Ebenezer  Cooke  were  one  and  the  selfsame  man!" 

"My  loss,  then,"  sighed  the  Captain,  more  in  reply  to  Miss  Robotham's 
remark  than  to  Ebenezer's.  "Henceforth,"  he  promised  Bertrand,  "I'll 
stick  to  my  last  and  leave  learning  to  the  learned." 

"Heav'n  forbid!"  Bertrand  laughed.  He  had  paid  no  heed  whatever  to 
Ebenezer's  previous  alarm.  "I  lose  enough  on  your  seamanship  without 
betting  against  ye  in  the  pool!" 

Captain  Meech  then  declaring  with  a  wink  that  all  his  money  was  in 
his  quarters,  Miss  Robotham  strode  off  on  his  arm  to  collect  her  winnings. 

Bertrand  looked  after  them  enviously.  "By  God,  that  is  a  saucy  piece!" 

"Tis  all  up  with  us!"  Ebenezer  groaned,  as  soon  as  the  couple  was 
out  of  earshot.  "You've  spiked  our  guns  for  fair!"  He  turned  again  to 
the  ocean  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"What?  Not  a  bit  oft!  Did  ye  see  how  she  purred  when  I  chuckled  her 
chin?" 

"You  treated  her  like  a  two-shilling  tart!" 

"No  more  than  what  she  is,"  Bertrand  said.  "D'ye  think  she's  playing 
at  cards  with  Meech  right  now?" 

"But  her  father  is  Colonel  Robotham  of  Talbot  County,  that  used  to 
sit  on  the  Maryland  Council!" 

Bertrand  was  unimpressed.  "I  know  him  well  enough.  Yet  'tis  a  queer 
father  will  hear  his  daughter  prate  of  knaves  and  strumpets,  I  must  say, 
and  recite  her  smutty  verses  at  the  table." 

"God  save  us!"  cried  the  Laureate.  "Where  were  we  now  had  I  not  been 
here  to  gloss  your  answer  and  turn  your  babbling  into  sense?  Marry,  if 
you  don't  discover  us  with  your  blunders,  you'll  have  us  horsewhipped 
with  your  foul  behavior!  Speak  no  more  of  the  valet's  refinement,  i'God; 
I've  seen  enough  oft,  and  of  his  ignorance!" 

"Ah  now,  compose  thyself,"  said  Bertrand.  "Twas  the  Laureate  I  was 


[  236  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

playing,  not  the  valet,  or  ye'd  have  seen  refinement  and  to  spare.  I  knew 
what  I  was  about." 

"You  knew " 

"As  for  this  same  raillery  and  bookish  converse  your  fine  folk  set  such 
store  by/'  he  went  on  testily,  "any  gentleman's  gentleman  like  myself  that 
hath  stood  off  a  space  and  seen  it  whole  can  tell  ye  plainly  the  object  oft, 
which  is:  to  sound  out  the  other  fellow's  sentiments  on  a  matter  and 
then  declare  a  cleverer  sentiment  yourself.  The  difference  here  'twixt  simple 
and  witty  folk,  if  the  truth  be  known,  is  that  your  plain  man  cares  much 
for  what  stand  ye  take  and  not  a  fart  for  why  ye  take  it,  while  your  smart 
wight  leaves  ye  whatever  stand  ye  will,  sobeit  ye  defend  it  cleverly.  Add  to 
which,  what  any  valet  can  tell  ye,  most  things  men  speak  of  have  but  two 
sides  to  their  name,  and  at  every  rung  on  the  ladder  of  wit  ye  hear  one 
held  forth  as  gospel,  with  the  other  above  and  below." 
"Ladder  of  wit!  What  madness  is  this?"  Ebenezer  demanded. 
"No  madness  save  the  world's,  sir,  if  ye'll  see  the  matter  whole.  Take 
your  wig  question,  now,  that's  such  a  thing  in  London:  whether  to  wear 
a  bob  or  a  full-bottom  peruke.  Your  simple  tradesman  hath  no  love  for 
fashion  and  wears  a  bob  on's  natural  hair  the  better  to  labor  in;  but  give 
him  ten  pound  and  a  fortnight  to  idle,  he'll  off  to  the  shop  for  a  great 
French  shag  and  a  ha'peck  of  powder,  and  think  him  the  devil's  own  fellow! 
Then  get  ye  a  dozen  such  idlers;  the  sharpest  among  'em  will  buy  him 
a  bob  wig  with  lofty  preachments  on  the  tyranny  of  fashion— haven't  I 
heard  'em!— and  think  him  as  far  o'er  his  full-bottomed  fellows  as  they 
o'er  the  merchants'  sons  and  bob-haired  'prentices.  Yet  only  climb  a  rung 
the  higher,  and  it's  back  to  the  full-bottom,  on  a  sage  that's  seen  so  many 
crop-wigs  feigning  sense,  he  knows  'tis  but  a  pose  of  practicality  and  gets 
him  a  name  for  the  cleverest  of  all  by  showing  their  sham  to  the  light  of 
day.  But  a  grade  o'er  him  is  the  bob  again,  on  the  pate  of  some  philosopher, 
and  over  that  the  full-bottom,  and  so  on.  Or  take  your  French  question: 
the  rustical  wight  is  all  for  England  and  thinks  each  Frenchman  the  Devil 
himself,  but  a  year  in  London  and  he'll  sneer  at  the  simple  way  his  farm 
folk  reason.  Then  comes  a  man  who's  traveled  that  road  who  says,  Tlague 
take  this  foppish  shill-I,  shall-l!  When  all's  said  and  done  'tis  England 
to  the  end!';  and  after  him  your  man  that's  been  abroad  and  vows  'tis  not 
a  matter  of  sMl-I,  shall-I  to  one  who's  traveled,  for  no  folk  are  cleverer 
than  the  clever  French,  'gainst  which  your  English  townsman's  but  a  bump- 
kin. Next  yet's  the  man  who's  seen  not  France  alone  but  every  blessed 
province  on  the  globe;  he  says  'tis  the  novice  traveler  sings  such  praise 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  237  ] 

for  Paris—the  man  who's  seen  'em  all  comes  home  to  England  and  carries 
all's  refinement  in  his  heart.  But  then  comes  your  grand  skeptical  philos- 
opher, that  will  not  grant  right  to  either  side;  and  after  him  a  grander, 
that  knows  no  side  is  right  but  takes  sides  anyway  for  the  clever  nonsense 
oft;  and  after  him  your  worldly  saint,  that  says  he's  past  all  talk  of  wars  and 
kings  fore'er,  and  gets  him  a  great  name  for  virtue.  And  after  him " 

''Enough,  I  beg  you!"  Ebenezer  cried,  "My  head  spinsl  For  God's  sake 
what's  your  point?" 

"No  more  than  what  I  said  before,  sir:  that  de'il  the  bit  ye've  tramped 
about  the  world,  and  bleared  your  eyes  with  books,  and  honed  your  wits 
in  clever  company,  whate'er  ye  yea  is  nay'd  by  the  man  just  a  wee  bit  simpler 
and  again  by  the  fellow  just  a  wee  bit  brighter,  so  that  clever  folk  care  less 
for  what  ye  think  than  why  ye  think  it.  'Tis  this  that  saves  me." 

But  Ebenezer  could  not  see  why.  "  Tis  that  shall  scotch  you,  I  should 
fancy!  A  fool  can  parrot  a  wise  man's  judgment  but  never  hope  to  defend 
it." 

"And  only  a  fool  would  try/'  said  Bertrand,  with  upraised  finger.  'Your 
poet  hath  no  need  to." 

Ebenezer's  features  did  a  dance. 

"What  I  mean,  sir,"  Bertrand  explained,  "when  they  come  upon  me  with 
one  of  their  mighty  questions—only  yestere'en,  for  instance,  they'd  have 
me  say  my  piece  on  witchery,  whether  I  believed  in  it  or  no— why,  all 
I  do  is  smile  me  a  certain  smile  and  say,  Why  not?'  and  there's  an  end 
on'tl  The  ones  that  agree  are  pleased  enough,  and  as  for  the  skeptical 
fellows,  they've  no  way  to  tell  if  I'm  a  spook-ridden  dullard  or  a  breed  of 
mystic  twice  as  wise  as  they.  Your  poet  need  never  trouble  his  head  to 
explain  at  all:  men  think  he  hath  a  passkey  to  Dame  Truth's  bedchamber 
and  smiles  at  the  scholars  building  ladders  in  the  court.  This  Civility  and 
Sense  ye  preach  of  are  his  worst  enemies;  he  must  pinch  the  ladies'  bosoms 
and  pull  the  schoolmen's  beards.  His  manner  is  his  whole  argument,  as't 
were,  and  that  certain  whimsical  smile  his  sole  rebuttal." 

"No  more,"  Ebenezer  said  sharply.  "I'll  hear  no  more!" 

Bertrand  smiled  his  whimsical  smile.  "Yet  surely  'tis  the  simple  truth?" 

"There  is  skin  of  truth  on't,  yes,"  the  Laureate  granted;  "but  'tis  like 
the  mask  of  sense  on  a  madman  or  a  film  of  ice  on  a  skaters'  pond— it 
only  makes  what  lies  beneath  more  sinister." 

Just  then  the  bell  was  rung  for  the  gentlemen  and  ladies  to  come  to 
supper. 


[  238  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Tis  our  goose  that's  cooked/7  Ebenezer  said  gloomily.  "You'll  see 
this  hour  Miss  Robotham  marked  your  ignorance/' 

"Haply  so/7  said  Bertrand  with  his  smile,  "but  I'd  stake  your  last  farthing 
she  thinks  I'm  a  bloody  Solomon.  We'll  know  soon  enough  who's  right." 

It  was,  in  fact,  closer  to  four  hours  before  the  Laureate  was  able  to  speak 
privately  with  his  man  again,  for  long  after  the  servants  had  themselves 
finished  eating,  the  fine  folk  lingered  at  cards  and  brandy  in  the  main 
cabin.  Their  very  merriment,  of  course—the  sounds  of  which  Ebenezer 
heard  clearly  where  he  stood  by  the  foremast,  brooding  on  the  moonlit 
ocean—seemed  to  indicate  that  nothing  was  seriously  amiss;  nevertheless 
his  exasperation  was  tempered  by  relief  when  finally  he  saw  Bertrand  emerge 
on  the  quarter-deck  with  Captain  Meech  himself,  still  laughing  at  some 
private  joke,  and  fire  up  his  pipe  at  the  smoking-lamp.  The  poet  felt  a 
pang  of  envy:  he  was  not  pleased  with  the  progress  of  events,  especially 
his  servant's  insolent  assurance.  Yet  it  was  not  Bertrand's  manner  alone 
that  disturbed  him;  the  truth  was,  he  found  the  man's  cynical  argument 
as  attractive  as  his  own  idealistic  reply  and  was  at  bottom  satisfied  with 
neither.  For  that  reason,  when  he  asked  what  had  been  said  at  supper  con- 
cerning the  literary  wager  of  the  afternoon,  he  was,  if  saddened,  not  sur- 
prised by  the  report. 

"  Twas  the  talk  of  the  table,  right  enough,  sir."  Bertrand  puffed  and 
frowned  at  his  pipe.  "The  Robotham  wench  told  what  I'd  said  and  how 
ye'd  glossed  it,  word  for  word.  To  speak  plainly,  sir,  the  Colonel,  her 
father,  then  asked  me  why  I  abided  so  brash  a  servant,  if  ye'll  pardon  me, 
as  presumes  to  speak  fofs  master.  The  rest  took  up  the  cry,  and  the  young 
piece  said  at  last,  one  could  know  me  for  a  poet  by  the  look  of  me,  and 
yourself  for  a  byo- .  .  .  beo- .  .  .  something  or  other." 

"Boeotian"  the  Laureate  said  glumly. 

"Aye.  Twas  another  of  her  smutty  words.7' 

Ebenezer  then  inquired,  not  enthusiastically,  what  answer  his  man  had 
made. 

"What  could  I  say,  to  end  their  gossip?  I  told  7em  flat  that  naught  matters 
in  a  secretary  save  his  penmanship.  The  Captain  then  summoned  up  old 
strumpet  Fortune  again,  that  seems  their  favorite  bawd:  he  knew  the  pas- 
sage through,  he  said,  but  had  forgot  just  when  'twas  spoke  in  some  play 
or  other  he  named." 

"Ah."  Ebenezer  closed  his  eyes  almost  hopefully.  "Then  'tis  over  and 
done  with  us,  after  all." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [239] 

"How's  that,  sir?  I  didn't  bat  an  eyelash,  thankee,  but  declared  'twas 
spoke  on  shipboard  an  hour  past  noon,  when  the  poet  lost  his  last  quid 
on  a  short  day's  run."  He  pulled  again  on  his  pipe  and  spat  with  satisfaction 
at  the  rolling  ocean.  "No  more  was  said  oft  after  that." 


13:  THE  LAUREATE,  AWASH  IN  A  SEA  OF  DIFFICULTIES, 
RESOLVES  TO  BE  LAUREATE,  NOT  BEFORE  INDITING 
FINAL  SEA-COUPLETS 


AFTER   THE    FOREGOING    CONVERSATIONS    WITH    BERTRAND,    EBENEZER'S 

dissatisfaction  with  his  position  was  no  longer  confined  to  mealtimes;  rather, 
he  took  to  a  general  brooding  and  spiritual  malaise.  He  could  write  no 
verse:  even  the  sight  of  a  school  of  great  whales,  which  in  happier  times 
would  have  set  his  fancy  spinning,  now  called  forth  not  a  single  rhyme. 
At  best  he  had  got  on  indifferently  with  his  messmates;  now  they  sensed 
his  distaste,  and  resentment  added  malice  to  the  jokes  they  made  at  his 
expense.  When,  therefore,  after  perhaps  a  week  of  this  solitary  discontent, 
Bertrand  confided  to  him  with  a  happy  leer  that  Lucy  Robotham  was  about 
to  become  the  Maryland  Laureate's  mistress,  his  reaction  to  the  news  was 
anything  but  hospitable. 

"You  lay  a  finger  on  her/'  he  threatened,  "and  you'll  finish  your  crossing 
in  leg  irons." 

"Ah,  well,  'tis  a  little  late  for  that  advice,  sir;  the  quail  is  bagged  and 
plucked,  and  wants  but  basting  on  the  spit." 

"No,  I  sayl"  Ebenezer  insisted,  as  much  impatient  as  appalled.  "Why 
must  I  say  it  twice?  Your  gambling  runs  counter  to  my  better  judgment, 
but  fornication— 'tis  counter  to  my  very  essence!" 

Bertrand  was  altogether  unruffled  by  his  master's  ire.  "Not  in  the  least," 
he  said.  "A  poet  without  a  mistress  is  a  judge  without  a  wig:  'tis  the 
badge  of  his  office,  and  the  Laureate  should  keep  a  staff  of  'em.  My  sole 
concern  is  to  play  the  poet  well,  sir." 

Ebenezer  remained  unpersuaded.  "  'Tis  an  overnice  concern  that  makes 
a  whore  of  the  Colonel's  daughter!" 

Here  Bertrand  protested  that  in  fact  his  interest  in  Lucy  Robotham  was 
largely  dispassionate:  Colonel  Robotham,  he  had  learned,  was  one  of 
the  original  conspirators  with  John  Coode  who  had  overthrown  Lord 


[  240  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Baltimore's  government  in  1689,  and,  for  all  he  was  sailing  presently  under 
Governor  Nicholson's  protection,  he  might  well  be  still  in  secret  league 
with  the  insurrectionists.  "  Twould  not  surprise  me/'  'he  declared,  "if  old 
Robotham's  using  the  girl  for  bait.  Why  else  would  he  watch  us  carry  on 
so  without  a  word?  Aye,  by  Heav'n,  I'll  hoist  him  with  his  own  petard!" 

In  the  face  of  this  new  information  and  his  valet's  apparent  talent  for 
intrigue,  Ebenezer's  resolve  began  to  weaken:  his  indignation  changed  to 
petulance.  "You've  a  Sophist's  gift  for  painting  vice  in  virtue's  color,"  he 
said.  "  Tis  clear  thou'rt  out  to  make  the  most  of  my  name  and  office." 

"Then  I  have  your  leave,  sir?" 

"I  wonder  you  even  trouble  to  ask  it  these  days." 

"Ah,  thankee,  sir!"  Bertrand's  voice  showed  obvious  relief.  "Thou'rt  a 
gentleman  to  the  marrow  and  have  twice  the  understanding  of  any  wight 
on  the  boat!  I  knew  ye  for  a  fine  soul  the  first  I  e'er  laid  eyes  on  you,  when 
Master  Andrew  sent  me  to  look  to  your  welfare  in  London.  In  every 
thing " 

"Enough;  you  sicken  me,"  the  poet  said.  "What  is't  thou'rt  after  now, 
for  God's  sake?  I  know  this  flattery  will  cost  me  dear." 

"Patience,  I  pray  ye,  sir,"  Bertrand  pleaded  in  a  tone  quite  other  than 
that  of  his  earlier  conversations;  he  was  for  the  nonce  entirely  the  valet 
again.  After  reaffirming  at  length  his  faith  in  Ebenezer's  understanding 
and  their  mutual  interest  in  preserving  their  disguise,  and  asserting  as  well 
that  they  were  of  one  mind  as  regarded  the  importance  of  gentlemanly 
wagering  to  that  disguise,  he  confessed  that  he  needed  additional  subsidiz- 
ing to  maintain  appearances,  and  this  at  once. 

"Dear  God!"  the  Laureate  cried.  "You've  not  lost  twenty  pounds  so 
soon!" 

Bertrand  nodded  confirmation  and  explained  that  he'd  wagered  heavily 
in  side  bets  on  the  past  day's  run  in  order  to  recoup  his  former  losses,  but 
that  despite  his  most  careful  calculations  he'd  lost  by  a  paltry  mile  or  so 
to  Miss  Robotham,  who  he  suspected  had  access  to  private  information 
from  the  Captain.  "  'Tis  but  another  case  of  influence  over  merit,"  he  con- 
cluded with  a  philosophic  sigh. 

"Half  my  savings!  And  you've  gall  enough  to  ask  for  the  rest  to  throw 
after  it!" 

"Far  from  it,  sir,"  Bertrand  declared.  "On  the  contrary,  I  mean  not  only 
to  win  your  money  and  mine  again,  but  to  pay  it  back  fivefold.  'Tis  for 
this  as  much  as  anything  I  need  the  Robotham  wench/'  The  Poseidon, 
he  said,  was  near  the  end  of  her  second  week  of  southwestering,  and  the 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  241  ] 

wise  money  placed  the  Azores  only  two  or  three  days  distant.  So  likely  was 
this  landfall,  in  fact,  that  the  bet-covering  parson  Mr.  Tubman  demanded  a 
pound  for  every  shilling  on  those  two  dates,  whereas  any  date  before  or 
afterwards  fetched  most  lucrative  odds.  Bertrand's  plan,  then,  was  to 
make  such  a  conquest  of  Miss  Robotham  that  she  would  turn  to  his  ac- 
count all  her  influence  with  Captain  Meech:  if  his  private  estimate  of  the 
date  of  landfall  was  other  than  the  prevailing  opinion,  Bertrand  would 
place  all  his  money  on  and  around  the  new  date;  if  the  Captain's  guess 
concurred  with  that  of  the  passengers,  Miss  Robotham  would  employ  every 
art  and  wile  to  induce  him  to  sail  more  slowly  and  raise  the  islands  on 
some  later  date.  Either  way,  he  assured  Ebenezer,  the  prospect  of  enrich- 
ing themselves  was  so  certain  that  it  could  scarce  be  called  a  wager  at  all. 

"Marry,  you  give  me  little  choice!"  Ebenezer  said  bitterly  when  his  man 
had  finished.  "First  you  make  it  seem  not  foolish  to  take  the  girl,  then  you 
make  it  downright  prudent,  and  now  you  make  it  necessary,  albeit  you 
know  as  well  as  I  at  bottom  'tis  naught  but  prurience  and  luxury.  Take 
the  wench,  and  my  money  as  well!  Make  me  a  name  for  a  gambling 
whoremonger  and  have  done  with't!" 

Having  thus  given  vent  to  his  feelings,  he  fetched  out  his  last  twenty 
pounds  from  the  trunk  and  with  great  misgivings  tendered  the  sum  to 
Bertrand,  appealing  a  final  time  to  the  man's  discretion.  The  servant 
thanked  him  as  one  gentleman  might  thank  another  for  a  trifling  loan  and 
went  to  setk  out  Lucy  Robotham. 

Following  this  transaction  the  poet's  melancholia  grew  almost  feverish. 
All  day  he  languished  in  his  berth  or  slouched  ungracefully  at  the  rail  to 
stare  at  the  ocean;  Bertrand's  announcement,  delivered  next  morning  with 
a  roll  of  the  eyes,  that  the  seduction  of  Miss  Robotham  was  an  accom- 
plished fact,  elicited  only  a  sigh  and  a  shake  of  his  master's  head;  and 
when  in  an  attempt  at  cheerfulness  the  valet  subsequently  declared  him- 
self ready  to  have  his  way  with  strumpet  Fortune,  the  Laureate's  listless 
reply  was  "Who  trafficks  with  strumpets  hath  a  taste  for  the  pox/' 

He  was,  as  he  himself  recognized  without  emotion,  very  near  a  state 
like  that  from  which  he'd  been  saved  once  by  Burlingame  and  again,  un- 
intentionally, by  John  McEvoy.  What  saved  him  this  time  was  an  event 
actually  in  keeping  with  his  mood:  on  the  first  of  the  two  "wise  money" 
days  the  fleet  encountered  its  first  really  severe  weather.  The  wind  swung 
round  from  north  to  southwest,  increased  its  velocity,  and  brought  with  it 
a  settled  storm  of  five  days'  duration.  The  Poseidon  pitched,  yawed,  and 
rolled  in  the  heavy  seas;  passengers  were  confined  below  decks  most  of  the 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

day.  The  smell  of  agitated  bilge  water  permeated  the  cabins,  and  even 
the  sailors  grew  seasick.  Ebenezer  fell  so  ill  that  for  days  he  could  scarcely 
eat  at  the  servants'  mess;  he  left  his  berth  only  when  nature  summoned 
him  either  to  the  ship's  rail  or  to  the  chamberpot.  Yet,  though  he  voiced 
his  misery  along  with  the  others,  he  had  not,  like  them,  any  fervent  wish 
for  calm:  to  precipitate  a  cataclysm  is  one  thing,  and  requires  resolution 
at  the  least;  but  to  surrender  to  and  embrace  an  already  existing  cataclysm 
wants  no  more  than  despair. 

He  did  not  see  Bertrand  again  until  late  in  the  fifth  and  final  day  of 
the  storm,  which  was  also  the  most  severe.  All  through  the  lightless  day 
the  Posiedon  had  shuddered  along  under  reefed  topsails,  the  wind  having 
shifted  to  the  northeast,  and  at  evening  the  gale  increased.  Ebenezer  was 
on  the  quarter-deck,  in  his  innocence  heaving  over  the  windward  rail  and 
in  his  illness  oblivious  to  the  unsavory  results.  Here  he  was  joined  by  his 
valet,  as  usual  dressed  in  his  master's  clothes,  who  had  come  on  deck  for 
the  same  purpose  and  who  set  about  the  work  with  similar  untidiness.  For 
awhile  they  labored  elbow  to  elbow  in  the  growing  dark;  presently  Ebenezer 
managed  to  ask,  "What  odds  doth  the  Reverend  Tubman  give  on  living 
through  this  night?  I'd  make  no  bets  on't." 

At  this  Bertrand  fell  to  a  perfect  fit  of  retching.  "Better  for  all  if  the 
bloody  boat  goes  under!"  he  replied  at  last.  "  Tis  not  a  fart  to  me  if  I 
live,  or  die." 

"Is  this  the  Laureate  I  hear?"  Ebenezer  regarded  his  man's  irifsery  with 
satisfaction. 

"Don't  speak  the  word!7'  Bertrand  moaned  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands.  "God  curse  the  day  I  e'er  left  London!" 

At  every  new  complaint,  Ebenezer's  stomach  grew  easier.  "But  how  is 
this?"  he  asked  sarcastically.  "You'd  rather  be  a  gelded  servingman  in  Lon- 
don than  a  gentleman  poet  with  a  mistress  and  a  fortune?  I  cannot  fathom 
it!" 

"Would  God  Ralph  Birdsall  had  untooled  me!"  Bertrand  cried.  "Man's 
cod's  a  wretched  handle  that  woman  leads  him  'round  with.  Oh,  the  whore! 
The  treacherous,,  lying  whore!" 

Now  the  poet's  satisfaction  turned  to  real  delight.  "Aha,  so  the  cock 
must  4crow  Cuckoo!  By  Heav'n,  the  wench  doth  well  to  horn  you,  that 
make  such  sport  of  horning'others!" 

"Nay,  God,  ye  must  not  praise  the  slut!" 

"Not  praise  her?  She  hath  my  praise  and  my  endorsement;  she  hath  my 
blessing " 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  243  ] 

"She  hath  your  money  too,"  said  Bertrand,  "all  forty  pound  of  it."  And 
seeing  his  master  too  thunderstruck  to  speak,  he  told  the  tale  of  his  decep- 
tion. The  Robotham  girl,  he  said,  had  sworn  her  love  for  him,  and  on  the 
strength  of  it  had  six  days  ago,  by  her  own  tearful  account,  mortgaged  her 
honor  to  the  extent  of  permitting  Captain  Meech  certain  liberties  with  her 
person,  in  return  wherefor  she  was  able  to  advise  Bertrand  to  put  his  money 
on  a  date  several  days  later  than  the  favored  ones:  she  had  it  straight  from 
the  Captain  that,  though  Flores  was  indeed  but  one  day  off,  a  storm  was 
brewing  on  the  south  horizon  that  could  set  them  back  a  hundred  miles 
with  ease.  At  the  same  time  she  cautioned  him  not  to  disclose  his  wager 
but  to  give  out  that  he  too  was  betting  on  the  popular  dates;  she  would 
see  to  it,  she  vowed,  that  the  bookmaking  minister  held  his  tongue— True 
love  recks  not  the  cost!  Finally,  should  the  Poseidon  not  raise  Flores  on 
the  proper  day,  she  had  a  maid  with  whom  the  lookout  on  the  larboard 
watch  had  fallen  quite  in  love  and  for  whose  favors  he  would  swear  to 
raising  the  jasper  coasts  of  Heaven. 

Thus  assured,  Bertrand  had  put  his  money  at  fifteen  to  one  on  the  day 
to  follow  this  present  day— but  alas,  as  he  saw  too  clearly  now,  the  wench 
had  worked  a  manifold  deception!  Her  real  lover,  it  appeared,  was  no  other 
soul  than  the  Reverend  Tubman  himself,  for  the  sake  of  whose  solvency 
she  had  led  every  poor  fool  in  the  group  to  think  her  his  secret  mistress 
and  bet  on  the  selfsame  date.  Then  when  the  storm  arrived  on  schedule, 
how  they  all  had  cursed  and  bemoaned  their  losses,  each  laughing  up  his 
sleeve  at  his  advantage  over  the  rest!  But  now,  on  the  eve  of  their 
triumph;  on  this  very  day  of  our  Lord  which  might  well  be  their  last;  in 
short,  one  hour  ago,  the  larboard  lookout  had  sworn  to  sighting  the  moun- 
tains of  Corvo  from  his  perch  in  the  maintop,  and  though  no  other  eye 
save  his  had  seen  them,  Captain  Meech  had  made  the  landfall  official. 

As  though  to  confirm  the  valet's  story,  Captain  Meech  just  then  ap- 
peared on  the  poop  and  ordered  the  ship  hove  to  under  reefed  fore-topsail 
—a  measure  that  the  gale  alone  made  prudent,  whether  Corvo  lay  to  lee- 
ward or  not.  Indeed,  the  mate's  command  to  strike  the  main  and  mizzen 
topsails  was  behindhand,  for  while  the  men  were  still  in  the  ratlines 
a  gust  split  all  three  sails  and  sprang  the  mizzenmast  as  well.  The  foresail 
itself  was  raised  instead,  double-reefed,  to  keep  the  ship  from  broaching 
to  until  a  new  fore-topsail  could  be  bent  to  its  yard;  then  the  crew  hurried 
to  clear  the  wildly  flapping  remnants  of  the  mizzen  topsail— and  none 
too  soon,  for  at  the  next  strong  gust  on  the  weakened  spar  a  mizzen  shroud 
parted  with  the  crack  of  a  pistol  shot. 


[244]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTO& 

It  was  at  this  least  fortunate  of  moments  that  Ebenezer,  sickened  anew 
by  the  tidings  of  his  ruin,  leaned  out  again  over  the  rail:  the  fiddle-tight 
shroud  lashed  back  and  smacked  him  on  the  transom,  and  he  was  horrified 
to  find  himself,  for  an  instant,  actually  in  the  sea  beside  the  ship!  No 
one  saw  him  go  by  the  board;  -the  officers  and  crew  had  their  hands  full, 
and  Bertrand,  unable  to  look  his  master  in  the  eye  during  the  confession, 
still  cowered  at  the  rail  with  his  face  in  his  arms.  He  could  not  shout  for 
coughing  up  sea-water,  but  nothing  could  have  been  done  to  save  him 
even  in  the  unlikely  event  that  anyone  heard  his  cries.  In  short,  it  would 
have  been  all  over  with  him  then  and  there  had  not  the  same  wind  that 
formerly  returned  his  heavings  to  him  now  blown  the  top  off  the  next 
great  wave:  crest,  spray,  and  senseless  poet  tumbled  back  aboard,  along 
with  numerous  tons  of  green  Atlantic  Ocean,  and  for  better  or  worse  the 
Laureate  was  safe. 

However,  he  did  not  regain  his  consciousness  at  once.  For  what  could 
to  him  have  been  as  well  an  hour  or  a  year  he  languished  in  a  species  of 
euphoria,  oblivious  to  his  surroundings  and  to  the  passage  of  time,  even 
to  the  fact  that  he  was  safe.  It  was  a  dizzy,  dreamlike  state,  for  the  most 
part  by  no  means  unpleasant,  though  interrupted  now  and  then  by  short 
periods  of  uncertain  straggling  accompanied  by  vague  pain.  Sometimes  he 
dreatned— not  nightmares  at  all  but  oddly  tranquil  visions.  Two  recurred 
with  soine  frequency:  the  first  and  most  mysterious  was  of  twin  alabaster 
mountain  cones,  tall  and  smoothly  polished;  old  men  were  seated  on  the 
peaks,  and  around  the  bases  surged  a  monstrous  activity  the  nature  of  which 
he  could  not  make  out.  The  other  was  a  recapitulation  of  his  accident, 
in  a  strangely  altered  version:  he  was  in  the  water  beside  the  Poseidon, 
but  the  day  was  gloriously  bright  instead  of  stormy;  the  tepid  sea  was  green, 
glass  calm,  and  not  even  wet;  the  ship,  though  every  sail  was  full,  moved 
not  an  inch  away;  not  Bertrand,  but  his  sister  Anna  and  his  friend  Henry 
Burlingame  watched  him  from  the  quarter-deck,  smiling  and  waving,  and 
instead  of  terror  it  was  ecstasy  that  filled  the  poet's  breast! 

When  at  length  he  came  fully  to  his  senses,  the  substance  of  these  dreams 
defied  recall,  but  their  tranquility  came  with  him  to  the  waking  world.  He 
lay  peacefully  for  a  long  time  with  his  eyes  open,  admitting  reality  a  fact 
at  a  time  into  his  consciousness.  To  begin  with,  he  was  alive— a  certain 
dizziness,  some  weakness  of  the  stomach,  and  sharp  pains  in  his  buttocks 
vouched  for  that,  though  he  felt  them  with  as  much  detachment  as  if 
the  ailing  members  were  not  his.  He  remembered  the  accident  without 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  245  ] 

alarm,  but  knew  neither  how  it  had  occurred  nor  what  had  saved  him. 
Even  the  memory  that  Bertrand  had  lost  all  his  money,  which  followed 
immediately  after,  failed  to  ruffle  his  serenity.  Gradually  he  understood 
that  he  was  lying  in  a  hammock  in  the  fo'c'sle:  he  knew  the  look  of  the 
place  from  his  earlier  confinement  there.  The  room  was  shadowy  and  full 
of  the  smells  of  lamp-oil  and  tobacco-smoke;  he  heard  occasional  short 
laughs  and  muttered  curses,  and  the  slap  of  playing-cards;  somewhere  near 
at  hand  a  sleeper  snored.  It  was  night,  then.  Last  of  all  he  realized  that 
the  ship  was  riding  steady  as  a  church,  at  just  the  slightest  angle  of  heel: 
the  storm  had  passed,  and  also  the  dangerous  period  of  high  seas  and  no 
wind  that  often  follows  storms  at  sea;  the  Poseidon  was  making  gentle  way. 

Though  he  was  loath  to  leave  that  pleasant  country  where  his  spirit  had 
lately  traveled,  he  presently  swung  his  legs  out  of  the  hammock  and  sat 
up.  In  other  hammocks  all  around  him  men  were  sleeping,  and  four  sailors 
played  at  cards  on  a  table  near  the  center  of  the  room. 

"Marry!"  one  of  them  cried.  "There  stirs  our  sleeping  beauty!"  The  rest 
turned  round  with  various  smiles  to  look. 

"Good  evening/'  Ebenezer  said.  His  voice  was  weak,  and  when  he  stood 
erect  his  legs  gave  way,  and  the  sharp  pain  in  his  buttocks  recommenced. 
He  grasped  a  bulkhead  for  support. 

"What  is't,  lad?"  a  smiling  jack  inquired.  "Got  a  gimp?" 

At  this  the  party  laughed  aloud,  and  though  the  point  of  the  joke  es- 
caped him,  Ebenezer  smiled  as  well:  the  strange  serenity  he'd  waked  with 
made  it  of  no  importance  that  their  laughter  was  doubtless  at  his  expense. 

"Belike  I  took  a  fall,"  he  said  politely.  "I  hurt  a  little  here  and  there." 

"  Twere  a  nine-day  wonder  if  ye  didn't!"  an  old  fellow  cackled,  and 
Ebenezer  recognized  that  same  Ned  who'd  first  delivered  him  into  Ber- 
trand's  presence  and  had  pinched  him  so  cruelly  into  the  bargain.  The 
others  laughed  again,  but  bade  their  shipmate  be  silent. 

A  third  sailor,  somewhat  less  uncouth  appearing  than  the  rest,  made 
haste  to  say,  "What  Ned  means  is,  small  wonder  ye've  an  ache  or  two 
where  the  mizzen  shroud  struck  ye."  He  indicated  a  small  flask  near  at 
hand.  "Come  have  a  dram  to  steady  yourself  while  the  mate's  on  deck." 

"I  thank  you,"  Ebenezer  said,  and  when  he  had  done  shivering  from 
the  rum  he  mildly  asked,  "How  is't  I'm  here?" 

"We  found  ye  senseless  on  the  main  deck  in  the  storm/'  the  sailor  said. 
"Ye'd  near  washed  through  the  scuppers." 

"Chips  yonder  used  your  berth  for  planking,"  old  Ned  added  gleefully, 


[  246  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

and  indicated  the  sailor  who  had  spoken  first—a  lean,  sandy  fellow  in  his 
forties. 

"No  offense  intended,  mind,"  said  the  carpenter,  playing  another  card. 
"We  was  taking  water  aft,  and  all  my  planks  was  washed  by  the  board. 
I  asked  in  the  'tween  decks  which  berth  to  use,  and  yours  was  the  one  they 
showed  me/' 

"Ah  well,  Fll  not  miss  their  company,  I  think."  On  further  questioning 
Ebenezer  learned  that  his  unconsciousness  had  lasted  three  days  and 
nights,  during  which  time  he'd  had  no  food  at  all.  He  was  ravenously  hun- 
gry; the  cook,  rather  expecting  him  to  die,  had  left  no  rations  for  him, 
but  the  crewmen  readily  shared  their  bread  and  cheese.  They  showed  con- 
siderable curiosity  about  his  three-day  coma:  in  particular,  had  he  felt  not 
anything  at  all?  His  assurance  that  he  had  not  seemed  greatly  to  amuse  them. 

"Out  on't,  then!"  the  carpenter  declared.  "Tis  over  and  done  with, 
mate,  and  if  aught's  amiss,  bear  in  mind  we  thought  ye  a  dying  man." 

"Amiss?"  Ebenezer  did  not  understand.  By  this  time  the  rum  had 
warmed  his  every  member,  and  the  edge  was  off  his  hunger.  In  the  lantern 
light  the  fo'c'sle  looked  quite  cozy.  He  had  not  lately  met  with  such  hos- 
pitality as  had  been  shown  him  by  these  uncouth  sailors,  who  doubtless 
knew  not  even  his  pseudonym,  to  say  nothing  of  his  real  identity.  "If  aught's 
amiss,"  he  asserted  warmly,  "  'tis  that  in  my  muddled  state  I've  made  no 
proper  thanks  for  all  your  kindness.  Would  God  I'd  pence  to  pay  you  for't, 
though  I  know  'twas  natural  goodness  moved  you  and  not  the  landsman's 
grubby  wish  for  gold.  But  I'm  a  pauper." 

"Think  never  a  fart  oft,"  one  of  the  men  replied.  "'Tis  your  master's 
lookout.  Drink  up,  now." 

The  Laureate  smiled  at  their  innocence  and  took  another  drink.  Should 
he  tell  them  who  in  fact  they  were  so  kind  to?  No,  he  decided  affectionately; 
let  virtue  be  its  own  reward.  He  called  to  mind  tales  of  kings  in  humble 
dress,  going  forth  among  their  subjects;  of  Christ  himself,  who  sometimes 
traveled  incognito.  Doubtless  they  would  one  day  learn  the  truth,  from 
some  poem  or  other  that  he'd  write:  then  the  adventure  would  become 
a  legend  of  the  fo'c'sles  and  a  telling  anecdote  in  biographies  to  come. 

The  sailors'  cordial  attitude  prevailed  through  the  following  fortnight, 
as  did  the  poet's  remarkable  tranquility.  This  latter,  at  least,  he  came  in- 
creasingly to  understand:  the  second  of  his  euphoric  visions  had  come 
back  to  him,  and  he  saw  in  it,  with  a  quiet  thrill,  a  mystic  affirmation  of 
his  calling,  such  as  those  once  vouchsafed  to  the  saints.  What  was  this 
ship,  after  all,  but  the  Ship  of  Destiriy,  from  which  in  retribution  for  his 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  247  ] 

doubts  he  had  been  cast?  What  was  the  ocean  but  a  Font  of  Rededication, 
a  moral  bath  to  cleanse  him  of  despair  and  restore  him  to  the  Ship?  The 
message  was  unequivocal  even  without  the  additional,  almost  frightening 
miracle  that  he  had  unwittingly  predicted  it!  Hence  Burlingame's  presence 
on  the  dream  ship,  for  he  it  was,  in  the  King  o'  the  Seas  (that  is  to  say, 
Poseidonl)  who  had  scoffed  at  the  third  line  of  Ebenezefs  quatrain 

"Let  Ocean  roar  his  damn'dest  Gde: 
Our  Planks  shan't  leak;  our  Masts  shan't  fail; 
With  great  Poseidon  by  our  Side 
He  seemeth  neither  wild  nor  wide. 

—which,  he  claimed,  placed  the  poet  in  the  ocean.  Ebenezer  thought  warmly 
of  his  friend  and  teacher,  who  for  all  he  knew  might  long  since  have  been 
found  out  by  Slye  and  Scurry  and  sent  to  a  watery  grave.  Henry  had  been 
skeptical  of  the  laureateship,  no  doubt  about  it 
"Would  God  I  had  him  here,  to  tell  this  wonder  to!" 
Since  the  momentous  sighting  of  Corvo  in  the  Azores,  the  Poseidon 
had  been  sailing  a  due  westerly  course  along  the  thirty-seventh  parallel  of 
latitude,  which  if  all  went  well  would  lead  her  straight  to  the  Virginia  Capes. 
The  lengthy  storm  had  scattered  the  fleet  to  the  four  winds,  so  that  not 
another  sail  was  visible  on  the  horizon;  but  Captain  Meech  looked  to 
overhaul  the  flagship  any  day^,  which  he  reckoned  to  be  ahead  of  them. 
Although  some  time  had  been  lost  in  making  repairs,  when  Chips  com- 
pleted a  masterful  scarfing  of  the  damaged  spar  the  Poseidon  bowled  along 
for  days  on  end  in  a  whole-sail  breeze.  They  were  five  weeks  out  of  Plym- 
outh; May  was  upon  them,  and  landfall  again  on  everybody's  lips. 

During  this  period  Ebenezer  seldom  left  the  foVsle:  for  one  thing,  it 
took  him  a  while  to  regain  his  strength;  for  another,  he  had  no  desire  to 
see  his  former  messmates  again,  and  anyway  his  musings  kept  him  pleasantly 
occupied.  Bertrand,  of  course,  he  could  not  avoid  some  contact  with,  but 
their  meetings  were  brief  and  uncommunicative— the  valet  was  uncertain 
of  his  position,  and  Ebenezer,  besides  enjoying  the  man's  discomfort,  had 
nothing  to  say  to  him.  Though  he  could  entertain  no  more  illusions  about 
the  ship's  magnificence,  his  admiration  for  the  sailors  had  increased  tenfold. 
His  despair  was  gone  completely:  with  tranquil  joy  he  watched  the  dolphins 
roll  along  the  freeboard  and  in  the  wake  and,  caught  up  in  the  general 
anticipation,  he  sharpened  his  quills,  got  out  the  volumes  of  Milton  and 
Samuel  Butler  that  he  used  as  references,  and  hatched  the  following  cou- 
plets to  describe  the  great  event  that  lay  ahead:  his  first  glimpse  of  Mary- 
land. 


[248]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Belike  Ulysses,  wncTring  West 

From  Ilions  Sack,  in  Tatters  drest, 

And  weary' d  of  his  ten-year  Roam 

O'er  wat'ry  Wilds  of  desart  Foam. 

Beholding  Ithaca  at  last 

And  seeing  all  his  Hardship  past, 

Did  swear  'twas  Heav'ns  own  Shore  he'd  rais'd, 

So  lovely  seem'd  it  as  he  gaz'd, 

Despite  its  Rocks  and  Fearsome  Coast. 

How  Heav'nlier,  then,  this  Land  I  boast, 

Whose  golden  Sands  and  verdant  Trees 

And  Harbours  snug,  designed  to  ease 

The  Sailors  Burthen,  greet  the  Eye 

With  naught  save  Loveliness!  Nay,  try 

As  best  it  might,  no  Poets  Song, 

Be't  e'er  so  sweet  or  ne'er  so  long, 

Could  tell  the  Whole  of  MARYLANDS  Charms, 

When  from  the  Oceans  boundless  Harms 

The  Travrler  comes  unscath'd  at  last, 

And  from  his  Vessels  loftiest  mast 

He  first  beholds  her  Beautyl 

To  which,  at  the  foot  of  the  ledger-sheet,  he  duly  appended  E.G.,  G^*, 
Pt  &  V  of  Md,  and  regarded  the  whole  with  a  satisfaction  such  as  he 
had  not  felt  since  the  night  of  Joan  Toast's  fateful  visit,  when  he  had  com- 
posed his  hymn  to  virginity;  in  particular  he  was  pleased  by  the  several 
enjambed  lines  and  the  sentences  ending  in  the  middle  of  a  couplet  or 
even  in  the  middle  of  a  line,  which  features  he  thought  lent  a  commendable 
tightness  of  structure  to  the  entire  poem,  and  by  the  lengthy  periods  them- 
selves, whose  syntactical  arrangement  precluded  the  sort  of  line-at-a-time 
composition  characteristic  of  amateurs.  He  was  impatient  to  have  done 
with  disguises  and  assume  his  true  position  in  the  Province;  his  physical 
condition  was  better  than  it  had  been  before  the  accident,  and  his  spirits 
could  scarcely  have  been  improved  upon.  After  considering  the  merits  of 
several  plans,  he  resolved  at  length  to  end  the  fraud  by  announcing  his 
identity  and  reciting  these  latest  verses  as  soon  as  the  Poseidon  made  a  land- 
fall: clearly  there  was  no  plot  against  the  Laureate  aboard  ship,  and  the 
passengers  deserved  to  know  the  truth  about  him  and  Bertrand 

It  was  not  his  fortune,  however,  to  carry  out  this  pleasant  scheme.  With 
their  journey's  end  so  near  at  hand,  passengers  and  crew  alike  grew  daily 
more  festive,  and  though  the  sailors  were  officially  forbidden  to  drink  aboard 
ship,  the  fo'c'sle  no  less  than  the  main  cabin  became  the  scene  of  nightly 
revels.  The  crew's  hospitality  to  Ebenezer  waxed  proportionately:  he  had 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  249  1 

no  money  to  invest  in  their  card-games,  but  he  readily  shared  their  rum 
and  cordiality. 

One  evening  when  all  had  drunk  a  fair  amount  of  liquor,  old  Ned,  whose 
amiable  deportment  had  most  surprised  the  Laureate,  descended  the  com- 
panionway  and  announced  to  the  company  at  large  that  he  had  just  re- 
turned from  an  interview  with  Mister  Ebenezer  Cooke  on  the  main  deck. 
Ebenezer's  ears  pricked  up  and  his  cheeks  burned,  for  the  man's  tone  im- 
plied that  he  had  been  sent  as  some  kind  of  spokesman  for  the  group.  The 
rest  avoided  looking  at  him. 

"I  told  'Squire  Cooke  how  fairly  we'd  looked  to's  man,"  Ned  continued, 
smiling  unpleasantly  at  the  poet.  "I  told  him  we'd  fetched  him  from  death's 
door  and  nursed  him  back  to  health  again,  and  shared  our  bed  and  board 
without  complaint.  Then  I  asked  him  if't  wouldn't  please  him  to  give 
us  somewhat  for  our  pains,  seeing  we're  coming  on  to  landfall " 

"What  did  he  say?"  a  man  asked.  Ebenezer's  features  boiled  about:  he 
was  disappointed  to  learn  that  their  generosity  had  been  at  least  partly 
venal,  but  at  the  same  time  he  recognized  his  obligation  to  them  and  the 
legitimacy  of  their  claim. 

Ned  leered  at  him.  'The  lying  wretch  pled  povertyl  Says  he  lost  his  last 
farthing  when  we  sighted  Corvoi" 

"  Tis  all  too  true,"  Ebenezer  declared,  in  the  face  of  a  general  protest 
at  Ned's  announcement.  "He  is  a  profligate  fellow  and,  not  content  to 
squander  his  own  money  hath  wagered  mine  as  well,  which  is  why  I  could 
not  join  your  games.  But  I  swear  you  shall  be  paid  for  your  kindness,  since 
you  set  a  price  on't.  Do  but  copy  down  your  names  for  me,  and  I'll  dis- 
patch the  sum  the  day  I  arrive  at  Maiden." 

'Til  wager  ye  will,  and  lose  my  money  tool"  Chips  laughed.  "A  vow 
like  that  is  lightly  sworn!" 

"Prithee  let  me  explain "  Ebenezer  made  up  his  mind  to  reveal  his 

identity  then  and  there. 

"No  explanation  needed,"  said  the  boatswain,  who  in  most  matters  spoke 
for  the  crewmen  on  that  watch.  "When  sailors  nurse  an  ailing  sailor  they 
want  no  thanks,  but  when  they  share  the  fo'c'sle  with  an  ailing  passenger, 
they're  paid  at  the  voyage's  end." 

"  'Tis  the  code  o'  the  sea,"  Ned  affirmed. 

"And  a  fair  one,"  Ebenezer  granted.  "If  you'll  but " 

"Stay,"  the  boatswain  commanded  with  a  smile,  and  brought  forth  a 
sheet  of  paper  from  his  pocket.  "Your  master  pleads  poverty,  and  you  as 
well.  There's  naught  for't  but  ye  must  sign  this  paper." 


[  250  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Ebenezer  took  the  document  doubtfully  and  read  the  rudely  penned 
words. 

"What  thing  is  this?"  he  cried,  and  looked  up  to  find  all  the  sailors  grin- 
ning at  his  wonder. 

"  Tis  the  code  o'  the  sea,  as  Ned  says/'  the  boatswain  answered.  "Sign 
ye  that  paper  and  thou'rt  a  poor  jack  like  the  rest  of  us,  that  owes  his 
fellows  not  a  fart." 

Indeed,  the  document  proclaimed  that  its  signer  was  a  kind  of  honorary 
member  of  the  Poseidon's  crew  and  shared  the  rights,  privileges,  and  obli- 
gations of  a  common  seaman,  work  and  pay  excepted.  Its  language,  polished 
by  comparison  with  the  penmanship,  suggested  that  the  gesture  was  in 
fact  a  traditional  means  of  coping  with  what  Ebenezer  had  assumed  to 
be  a  novel  predicament,  and  Captain  Meech's  signature  in  one  corner  be- 
spoke official  sanction. 

"Then— you  want  no  payment  after  all?" 

The  boatswain  shook  his  head.  "  'Twould  be  against  the  code  to  think 
oft  from  a  shipmate/' 

"Why,  'tis  an  honor!"  the  poet  laughed,  his  esteem  for  the  men  re- 
doubled. "I'll  sign  my  name  right  gladly!"  And  fetching  out  his  quill  he 
fixed  his  proper  name  and  title  to  the  paper. 

"Ah,  mate,"  said  Chips,  who  watched  behind  his  shoulder,  "what  prank 
is  this  ye  play  us  for  our  kindness?  Sign  thy  own  name,  not  thy  master's!" 

"Is't  you* ve  heard  before  about  the  code?"  Ned  asked  suspiciously. 

"Nay,  gentlemen,  I  mean  no  prank.  'Tis  time  you  knew  the  truth."  He 
proceeded  then  to  tell  the  whole  story  of  his  disguise,  explaining  as  briefly 
as  he  could  what  made  it  necessary.  The  liquor  oiled  his  tongue:  he  spoke 
eloquently  and  at  length,  and  by  way  of  credentials  even  recited  from 
memory  every  couplet  in  his  notebook.  "Do  but  say  the  word,"  he  con- 
cluded. "I'll  fetch  my  valet  hence  to  swear  to't.  He  could  not  quote  a  verse 
from  memory  and  scarce  could  read  'em  off  the  page." 

At  first  openly  incredulous,  the  men  were  clearly  impressed  by  the  time 
the  poet  was  finished.  No  one  suggested  summoning  Bertrand  to  testify. 
Their  chief  reservation,  it  turned  out,  was  the  fact  that  Ebenezer  had 
been  content  with  a  fo'c'sle  hammock  while  his  servant  enjoyed  the  favors 
of  Miss  Lucy  Robotham,  and  the  Laureate  turned  this  quickly  to  account 
by  reminding  them  of  his  hymn  to  virginity:  such  behavior  as  Bertrand's 
was  unthinkable  in  .a  man  to  whom  virginity  was  of  the  essence. 

"  'Sbody!"  the  boatswain  cried.  "Ye  mean  to  say  a  poet  is  like  a  popish 
priest,  that  uses  his  cod  for  naught  but  a  bilge-pump?" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  2J1  ] 

"I  speak  for  no  poet  save  myself/7  Ebenezer  replied,  and  went  on  to 
explain,  insofar  as  modesty  permitted,  the  distinction  between  ecclesiastical 
celibacy  and  true  virginity.  The  former,  he  declared,  was  no  more  than  a 
discipline,  albeit  a  highly  commendable  one  in  that  it  turned  to  nobler 
work  the  time  and  energy  commonly  spent  on  love-making,  spared  the 
votary  from  dissipating  entanglements  with  mistresses  and  wives,  and  was 
conducive  in  general  to  a  longer  and  more  productive  life;  but  it  was  by 
no  means  so  pure  a  state  as  actual  virginity,  and  in  point  of  fact  implied 
no  necessary  virtue  at  all—the  greatest  lecher  is  celibate  in  later  years,  when 
his  powers  have  fled.  Celibacy,  in  short,  was  a  negative  practice  almost 
always  adopted  either  by  default  or  by  external  authority;  virginity,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  a  positive  metaphysical  state,  the  more  to  be  admired  since 
it  was  self-imposed  and  had  in  itself  neither  instrumental  value  nor,  in  the 
male,  physical  manifestation  of  its  possession  or  loss.  For  him  it  had  not 
even  the  posthumous  instrumentality  of  a  Christian  virtue,  since  his  in- 
terest in  it  was  ontological  and  aesthetic  rather  than  moral.  He  expatiated 
freely,  more  for  his  own  edification  than  that  of  the  crew,  who  regarded 
him  with  awe. 

"Ye  mean  to  sit  there  and  tell  us/'  the  boatswain  asked  soberly  in  the 
middle  of  a  sentence,  "ye  never  caulked  a  fantail  in  your  life?  Ye  never 
turned  the  old  fid  to  part  some  dock-whore's  hemp?" 

"Nor  shall  I  ever/'  the  poet  said  stoutly,  and  to  forestall  further  prykig 
he  returned  the  proclamation  and  proposed  a  drink  to  his  new  position. 
"Think  not  I  count  your  honor  less  as  Laureate,"  he  assured  them.  "Let's 
have  a  dram  on't,  and  ere  the  night's  done  I'll  pay  my  toll  with  something 
more  sweet  than  silver."  Indeed,  he  meant  to  do  them  no  less  an  honor 
than  to  sing  their  praises  for  ever  and  all  in  verse. 

The  sailors  looked  at  each  other. 

"So  be't!"  old  Ned  cackled,  and  the  others  voiced  approval  too.  "Get 
some  rum  in  him,  mates,  'fore  the  next  watch!" 

Ebenezer  was  given  the  bottle  and  bade  to  drink  it  all  himself.  "What's 
this?"  He  laughed  uncertainly.  "A  sort  of  initiation  ceremony?" 

"Nay,  that  comes  after,"  said  Chips.  "The  rum's  to  make  ye  ready." 

Ebenezer  declined  the  preliminaries  with  a  show  of  readiness  for  any 
mock  ordeal.  "Let's  put  by  the  parsley  and  have  at  the  meat,  then;  you'll 
find  me  game  for'tl" 

This  was  the  signal  for  a  general  uproar:  the  poet's  arms  were  pinioned 
from  both  sides;  his  chair  was  snatched  from  under  him  by  one  sailor, 
and  before  he  could  recover  from  his  surprise  another  pressed  his  face  into 


[  252  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

a  pillow  that  lay  in  the  center  of  the  table,  having  magically  appeared  from 
nowhere.  Not  given  by  temperament  to  horseplay,  Ebenezer  squirmed  with 
embarrassment;  furthermore,  both  by  reason  of  his  office  and  from  sim- 
ple fear  of  pain  he  did  not  relish  the  idea  of  ritual  bastinados  on  his  back- 
side, the  administering  of  which  he  assumed  to  be  the  sailors'  object. 

When  to  his  horror  it  grew  clear,  a  moment  later,  that  birching  was  not 
their  intent  at  all,  no  force  on  earth  could  keep  him  silent;  though  his 
head  was  held  as  fast  as  were  his  limbs,  he  gave  a  shriek  that  even  the 
main-top  lookout  heard. 

"Captain  Meech  will  hang  you  for  this!"  he  cried,  when  he  could  muster 
words. 

"Ye  think  he  knows  naught  o'  the  code  o'  the  sea?"  Ebenezer  recognized 
old  Ned's  evil  cackle  behind  him.  "Ye  saw  his  name  on  the  paper,  did  ye 
not?" 

And  as  if  to  confirm  the  hopelessness  of  his  position,  no  sooner  had  he 
recommenced  his  shrieks  than  the  mate  on  deck  thrust  his  head  down  the 
companionway  to  issue  a  cheerful  ultimatum:  "The  Captain  says  belay  the 
hollowing  or  lay  the  wretch  out  with  a  pistol-butt.  He's  bothering  the  ladies." 

His  only  threat  thus  spiked,  Ebenezer  seemed  condemned  to  suffer  the 
initiation  in  its  ruinous  entirety.  But  a  sudden  cry  went  up  on  deck— Eb- 
enezer, half  a-swoon,  paid  no  attention  to  it— and  in  an  instant  every  man 
ran  for  the  companionway,  leaving  the  novice  to  his  own  resorts.  Weak  with 
outrage,  he  sent  a  curse  after  them.  Then  he  made  shift  to  dress  himself  and 
tried  as  best  he  could  to  calm  his  nerves  with  thoughts  of  retribution.  Still 
oblivious  to  the  sound  of  shouts  and  running  feet  above  his  head,  he  pres- 
ently gave  voice  to  a  final  sea-couplet,  the  last  verse  he  was  to  spawn  for 
weeks  to  come: 

"Hell  hath  no  fouler,  filthier  Demon: 
Preserve  me,  LORD,  from  English  Seamen!" 

Now  to  the  general  uproar  on  deck  was  added  the  sound  of  musket  fire 
and  even  the  great  report  of  a  cannon,  though  the  Poseidon  carried  no 
artillery:  whatever  was  happening  could  no  longer  be  ignored.  Ebenezer 
went  to  the  companionway,  but  before  he  could  climb  up  he  was 
met  by  Bertrand,  in  nightgown  and  cap,  who  leaped  below  in  a  single 
bound  and  fell  sprawling  on  the  floor. 

"Master  Ebenezer!"  he  cried  and,  spying  the  poet  by  the  ladderway, 
rose  trembling  to  his  knees.  At  sight  of  the  man's  terror  Ebenezer's  flesh 
tingled. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  253  ] 

"What  is't,  man?  What  ails  you?" 

"We're  all  dead  men,  sir!"  Bertrand  wailed.  "  Tis  all  up  with  us!  Pirates, 
sir!  Ah,  curse  the  hour  I  played  at  Laureate!  The  devils  are  boarding  us 
this  moment!" 

"Nay!  Thou'rt  drunk!" 

"I  swear't,  sir!  Tis  the  plank  for  all  of  us!"  In  the  late  afternoon,  he 
explained,  the  Poseidon  had  raised  another  sail  to  the  southeast,  which, 
taking  it  for  some  member  of  the  fleet,  Captain  Meech  made  haste  to 
overhaul  before  dark— the  man-o'-war  that  was  to  see  them  safely  through 
pirate  waters  had  been  out  of  sight  since  Corvo,  and  two  ships  together 
were  more  formidable  prey  than  one  alone.  But  it  had  taken  until  just 
awhile  ago  to  overtake  the  stranger,  and  no  sooner  were  they  in  range 
than  a  shot  was  fired  across  their  bow,  and  they  realized  too  late  that  they 
were  trapped.  "Would  Heav'n  I'd  stayed  to  face  Ralph  Birdsall!"  he  la- 
mented in  conclusion.  "Better  my  cod  lost  than  my  whole  life!  What  shall 
we  do?" 

The  Laureate  had  no  better  answer  for  this  than  did  his  valet,  who  still 
crouched  trembling  on  his  knees»  unable  to  stand.  The  shooting  had 
stopped,  but  there  was  even  more  shouting  than  before,  and  Ebenezer 
felt  the  shock  of  another  hull  brushing  the  Poseidon's.  He  climbed  a  little 
way  up  the  ladder— just  enough  to  peer  out 

He  saw  a  chilling  sight.  The  other  vessel  rode  along  the  Poseidon's  star- 
board beam,  made  fast  to  her  victim  with  numerous  grappling  hooks.  It 
was  a  shallop,  schooner-rigged  and  smaller  than  the  Poseidon,  but  owing 
to  its  proximity  and  the  long  weeks  during  which  nothing  had  been  to 
be  seen  but  open  sea  on  every  hand,  it  looked  enormous.  Men  with  pistols 
or  torches  in  one  hand  and  cutlasses  in  the  other,  presumably  pirates,  were 
scrambling  over  the  railings  unopposed,  the  firelight  rendering  them  all 
the  more  fearsome,  and  were  herding  the  Poseidon's  crew  around  the  main- 
mast; it  appeared  that  Captain  Meech  had  deemed  it  unwise  to  resist.  The 
Captain  himself,  together  with  his  fellow  officers,  could  be  seen  under 
separate  guard  farther  aft,  by  the  mizzen,  and  already  the  passengers  were 
being  rousted  out  from  their  berths  onto  the  deck,  most  in  nightclothes 
or  underwear.  The  men  cursed  and  complained;  the  women  swooned, 
shrieked,  or  merely  wept  in  anticipation  of  their  fate.  Over  the  pirates'  fore- 
mast hung  the  gibbous  moon,  its  light  reflecting  whitely  from  the  fluttering 
gaff-topsails;  the  lower  sails,  also  luffing  in  the  cool  night  breeze,  glowed 
orange  in  the  torchlight  and  danced  with  giant,  flickering  shadows.  Eben- 
ezer leaned  full  against  the  ladder  to  keep  from  falling.  To  his  mind 


[  254 1  THE  SOT-W1™  FACTOR 

rushed  all  the  horrors  he'd  read  about  in  Esquemeling:  how  Roche 
Brasiliano  had  used  to  roast  his  prisoners  on  wooden  spits,  or  rub  their 
stripes  with  lemon  juice  and  pepper;  how  L'Ollonais  had  pulled  out  his 
victims'  tongues  with  his  bare  hands  and  chewed  their  hearts;  how  Henry 
Morgan  would  squeeze  a  man's  eyeballs  out  with  a  tourniquet  about  the 
skull,  depend  him  by  the  thumbs  and  great  toes,  or  haul  him  aloft  by  the 
privy  members. 

From  behind  and  below  came  the  sound  of  Bertrand's  lamentations, 

"Now  belay  it,  belay  it!"  one  of  the  pirates  was  commanding,  perhaps 
an  officer.  It  was  not  the  passengers'  miserable  carcasses  they  had  designs 
on,  he  declared,  but  money  and  stores.  If  everyone  behaved  himself  prop- 
erly,, no  harm  would  befall  them  save  the  loss  of  their  valuables,  a  few 
barrels  of  pork  and  peas,  and  three  or  four  seamen,  whom  the  pirates 
needed  to  complement  their  crew;  in  an  hour  they  could  resume  their  voy- 
age. He  then  dispatched  a  contingent  of  pirates  to  accompany  the  male 
passengers  back  to  their  quarters  and  gather  the  loot,  the  women  remaining 
above  as  hostages  to  assure  a  clean  picking;  another  detail  he  ordered  to 
pillage  the  hold;  and  a  third,  consisting  of  three  armed  men,  came  forward 
to  search  the  fo'c'sle  for  additional  seamen. 

"Quickly!"  Ebenezer  cried  to  Bertrand,  jumping  to  the  floor.  "Put  these 
clothes  on  and  give  me  my  nightgown!"  He  commenced  pulling  the  valet's 
clothes  off  himself  as  hastily  as  possible. 

"Why?"  Bertrand  wailed.  "  Tis  all  over  with  us  either  way." 

Ebenezer  had  his  clothes  off  already  and  began  to  yank  at  the  night- 
gown. "We  know  not  what's  in  store  for  us,"  he  said  grimly.  "Belike  'tis 
the  gentlemen  they're  after,  not  the  poor  folk.  At  any  rate  'twere  better 
to  see't  through  honestly:  if  I'm  to  die  I'll  die  as  Eben  Cooke,  not  Bertrand 
Burton!  Off  with  this,  now!"  He  gave  a  final  tug,  and  the  gown  came  off 
over  Bertrand's  head  and  arms.  "I'Christ,  'tis  all  beshit!" 

"For  very  fear,"  the  valet  admitted,  and  scrabbled  after  some  clothes. 

"Avast  there,  laddies!"  came  a  voice  from  the  companionway.  "Lookee 
here,  mates,  'tis  a  floating  Gomorry!" 

Ebenezer,  the  foul  nightdress  half  over  his  head,  and  Bertrand,  still 
naked  on  all  fours,  turned  to  face  three  grinning  pirates,  pistols  and  swords 
in  hand,  on  the  ladder. 

"I  do  despise  to  spoil  your  party,  sailors,"  said  the  leader.  He  was  a  fero- 
cious-looking Moor,  bull-necked,  broken-nosed,  rough-bearded,  and  dark- 
skinned;  a  red  turbanlike  cap  sat  on  his  head,  and  black  hair  bristled  from 
his  open  shirt.  "But  we  want  your  arses  on  deck." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  255  ] 

"Prithee  don't  mistake  me,  sir/'  Ebenezer  answered,  pulling  the  skirts 
of  his  nightdress  down.  He  drew  himself  up  as  calmly  as  he  could  and 
pointed  with  disdain  to  Bertrand.  "This  fellow  here  may  speak  for  him- 
self, but  I  am  no  sailor:  my  name  is  Ebenezer  Cooke,  and  I  am  Poet 
Laureate  of  His  Majesty's  Province  of  Maryland!" 


14:    THE  LAUREATE  IS  EXPOSED  TO  TWO 
ASSASSINATIONS  OF  CHARACTER,  A  PIRACY,  A  NEAR- 
DEFLOWERING,  A  NEAR-MUTINY,  A  MURDER,  AND  AN 
APPALLING  COLLOQUY  BETWEEN  CAPTAINS  OF  THE 
SEA,  ALL  WITHIN  THE  SPACE  OF  A  FEW  PAGES 


UNIMPRESSED  BY  EBENEZER^S  DECLARATION,  THE  HORRENDOUS  MOOR  AND 

his  two  confederates  hustled  their  prisoners  up  to  the  main  deck,  the  Lau- 
reate clad  only  in  his  unpleasant  nightshirt  and  Bertrand  in  a  pair  of 
breeches  hastily  donned.  The  uproar  had  by  this  time  subsided  to  some  ex- 
tent; though  the  women  and  servants  wepf  and  wailed  on  every  hand,  the 
officers  and  crew  stood  sullenly  in  groups  around  the  mizzen  and  foremasts, 
respectively,  and  the  gentlemen,  who  were  returning  one  by  one  from  the 
main  cabin  under  the  guard  of  their  plunderers,  preserved  a  tight-lipped 
silence.  Thus  far  no  physical  harm  had  been  offered  either  woman  or  man, 
and  the  efficient  looting  of  the  Poseidon  was  nearly  complete:  all  that  re- 
mained of  the  pirates'  stated  objectives,  as  overheard  by  Ebenezer,  was  ta 
finish  the  transfer  of  provisions  and  impress  three  or  four  seamen  into  their 
service. 

For  robbery  Ebenezer  cared  little,  his  valet  having  picked  him  clean 
already;  it  was  the  prospect  of  being  impressed  that  terrified  him,  since  he 
and  Bertrand  had  been  captured  in  the  fo'c'sle  and  neither  was  wearing 
the  clothes  of  a  gentleman.  His  fears  redoubled  when  their  captors  led 
them  toward  the  foremast. 

"Nay,  prithee,  hear  me!"  he  cried.  "I  am  no  seaman  at  all!  My  name 
is  Ebenezer  Cooke,  of  Cooke's  Point  in  Maryland!  I'm  the  Laureate 
Poet!" 

The  Poseidon  s  crew,  despite  the  seriousness  of  their  position,  grinned 
and  elbowed  one  another  at  his  approach. 

"Thou'rt  a  laureate  liar,  Jack,"  growled  one  of  the  pirates,  and  flung 


[256]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

him  into  the  group.  But  the  scene  attracted  notice,  and  a  pirate  officer, 
who  by  age  and  appearance  seemed  to  be  the  Captain,  approached  from 
the  waist. 

"What  is't,  Boabdil?"  The  officer's  voice  was  mild,  and  his  dress,  in  con- 
trast to  the  outlandishness  of  his  men's,  was  modest,  even  gentlemanly; 
on  shore  one  would  have  taken  him  for  an  honest  planter  or  shipowner 
in  his  fifties,  yet  the  great  Moor  was  clearly  alarmed  by  his  approach,  and 
glowered  at  Ebenezer  for  having  precipitated  it, 

"Naught  in  the  world,  Captain.  We  found  these  puppies  buggered  in 
the  fo'c'sle,  and  the  long  one  there  claims  he's  no  sailor." 

"Ask  my  man  here!"  Ebenezer  pleaded,  falling  on  his  knees  before  the 
Captain.  "Ask  those  wretches  yonder  if  I'm  one  of  them!  I  swear  to  you 
sir,  I  am  a  gentleman,  the  Laureate  of  Maryland  by  order  of  Lord  Balti- 
more!" 

In  response  to  the  Captain's  question  Bertrand  attested  his  master's  iden- 
tity and  declared  his  own,  and  the  boatswain  volunteered  additional  con- 
firmation; but  old  Ned,  though  no  one  had  asked  his  opinion,  spitefully 
swore  the  opposite,  and  by  way  of  evidence  produced,  to  the  poet's  horror, 
the  document  signed  in  the  fo'c'sle,  which  proclaimed  Ebenezer  a  member 
of  the  crew. 

"  'Twere  better  for  all  if  ye  signed  them  two  aboard,"  he  added.  "They're 
able  enough  seamen,  but  thieves  and  rogues  to  ship  with!  Don't  let  'em 
fool  ye  with  their  carrying-on!" 

Seeing  their  old  shipmate's  purpose,  some  of  the  other  men  took  up  the 
cry,  hoping  thereby  to  save  themselves  from  being  forced  to  join  the  pi- 
rates. But  the  Captain,  after  examining  Ned's  document,  flung  it  over 
the  side. 

"I  know  those  things,"  he  scoffed.  "Besides,  'twas  signed  by  the  Laureate 
of  Maryland."  He  appraised  Ebenezer  skeptically.  "So  thou'rt  the  famous 
Eben  Cooke?" 

"I  swear't,  sir!"  Ebenezer's  heart  pounded;  he  tingled  with  admiration 
for  the  Captain's  astuteness  and  with  wonder  that  his  own  fame  was  al- 
ready so  widespread.  But  his  troubles  were  not  over,  for  although  the  pirate 
seemed  virtually  persuaded,  he  ordered  both  men  brought  aft  for  identi- 
fication by  the  passengers,  whereupon  he  was  perplexed  to  hear  a  third  ver- 
sion—neither of  the  men  was  a  sailor,  but  it  was  the  older,  stouter  one  who 
was  Laureate,  and  the  skinny  wretch  his  amanuensis.  Captain  Meech 
agreed,  and  added  that  this  was  not  the  servant's  first  presumption  to  his 
master's  office. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  257  ] 

"Ah,"  the  pirate  captain  said  to  Bertrand,  "thou'rt  hiding  behind  thy 
servant's  skirts,  then!  Yet  how  is't  the  crew  maintain  the  contrary?" 

By  this  time  the  looting  of  the  Poseidon  was  complete,  and  everyone's 
attention  turned  to  the  interrogation.  Ebenezer  despaired  of  explaining 
the  complicated  story  of  his  disguise. 

"What  matters  it  to  you  which  is  the  liar?"  Captain  Meech  inquired 
from  the  quarter-deck,  where  he  was  being  held  at  pistol-point.  "Take 
their  money  and  begone  with  ye!" 

To  which  the  pirate  answered,  undisturbed,  "'Tis  not  the  Laureate's 
money  I  want— he  hath  little  enough  of  that,  I'll  wager."  Ebenezer  and 
Bertrand  both  vouched  for  the  truth  of  this  conjecture.  "  'Tis  a  good  valet 
I'm  after,  to  attend  me  aboard  ship;  the  Laureate  can  go  to  the  Devil." 
"Ye  have  found  me  Out,"  Bertrand  said  at  once.  "I'll  own  I  am  the 
Laureate  Eben  Cooke." 

"Wretch!"  cried  Ebenezer.  "Confess  thou'rt  a  lying  scoundrel  of  a  serv- 
ant!" 

"Nay,  I'll  tell  the  truth,"  the  pirate  said,  watching  both  men  carefully. 
"  Tis  the  servant  can  go  hang  for  all  o'  me;  I've  orders  to  hold  the  Laureate 
on  my  ship." 

"There  is  your  poet,  sir."  Bertrand  pointed  shamelessly  to  Ebenezer.  "A 
finer  master  no  man  ever  served." 

Ebenezer  goggled.  "Nay,  nay,  good  masters!"  he  said  at  last.  "  'Tis  not 
the  first  time  I've  presumed,  as  Captain  Meech  declared!  This  man  here 
is  the  Laureate,  in  truth!" 

"Enough,"  the  pirate  commanded,  and  turned  to  the  turbaned  Moor. 
"Clap  'em  both  in  irons,  and  let's  be  off." 

Thus  amid  murmurs  from  the  people  on  the  Poseidon  the  luckless  pair 
were  transferred  to  the  shallop,  protesting  mightily  all  the  way,  and  having 
confiscated  every  firearm  and  round  of  ammunition  they  could  find  aboard 
their  prey,  the  pirates  gave  the  ladies  a  final  pinch,  clambered  over  the 
rail,  cast  off  the  grapples,  and  headed  for  the  open  sea,  soon  putting 
their  outraged  victims  far  behind.  The  kidnaped  seamen— Chips,  the  boat- 
swain, and  a  youngster  from  the  starboard  watch — were  taken  to  the  cap- 
tain's quarters  to  sign  papers,  and  the  two  prisoners .  confined  forward  in 
the  rope-  and  sail-locker,  which  by  addition  of  a  barred  door  and  leg  irons 
made  fast  to  the  massive  oak  knees  had  been  turned  into  a  lightless  brig. 
Sick  with  wrath  at  his  valet's  treachery  though  he  was,  and  with  appre- 
hension for  his  fate,  Ebenezer  was  also  bewildered  by  the  whole  affair  and 
demanded  to  know  the  reason  for  their  abduction;  but  to  all  such  queries 


[  2rg  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

their  jailer— that  same  black  giant  who  had  first  laid  hands  on  them— sim- 
ply responded,  "Captain  Pound  hath  his  reasons,  mate,"  and  would  say 
no  more.  It  was  not  until  the  leg  irons  were  fastened  and  the  brute,  in  the 
process  of  bolting  the  heavy  door,  repeated  this  answer  for  the  fourth  or 
fifth  time,  that  Ebenezer  recognized  the  name. 

"Captain  Pound,  did  you  say?  Your  captain's  name  is  Pound?" 

'Tom  Pound  it  is,"  the  pirate  growled,  and  stayed  for  no  further  ques- 
tions. 

"Dear  Heav'n!"  the  poet  exclaimed.  He  and  Bertrand  were  alone  in 
the  tiny  cell  now,  and  in  absolute  darkness,  the  Moor  having  taken  the 
lamp  with  him. 

"D'ye  know  the  blackguard,  sir?  Is  he  a  famous  pirate?  Ah  Christ,  that 
I  were  back  in  Pudding  Lane!  I'd  hold  the  wretched  thing  myself,  and  let 
Ralph  Birdsall  do  his  worst!" 

"Aye,  I  know  of  Thomas  Pound."  Ebenezer's  astonishment  at  the  coin- 
cidence—if indeed  it  was  one— temporarily  gained  the  better  of  his  wrath. 
"He's  the  very  pirate  Burlingame  once  sailed  with,  off  New  England!" 

"Master  Burlingame  a  pirate!"  Bertrand  exclaimed.  "At  that,  'tis  no  sur- 
prise to  me " 

"Hold  thy  lying  tongue!"  snapped  Ebenezer.  "Thou'rt  a  pretty  knave 
to  criticize  my  friend,  that  would  throw  me  to  the  sharks  yourself  for  tup- 
pence!" 

"Nay,  prithee,  sir,"  the  servant  begged,  "think  not  so  hard  of  me.  I'll 
own  I  played  ye  false,  but  'twas  thy  life  or  mine,  no  paltry  tuppence." 
What's  more,  he  added,  Ebenezer  had  done  the  same  a  moment  later, 
when  the  Captain  revealed  his  true  intention. 

To  this  truth  the  Laureate  had  no  rejoinder,  and  so  for  a  time  both  men 
were  silent,  each  brooding  on  his  separate  misery.  For  beds  they  had  two 
piles  of  ragged  sailcloth  on  the  floor  timbers,  which,  since  their  cell  was 
in  the  extreme  bow  of  the  shallop,  were  not  horizontal  but  curved  upwards 
from  keel  and  cutwater,  so  that  they  also  formed  the  walls.  The  angle, 
together  with  the  pounding  of  waves  against  the  bow,  would  have  made 
sleep  impossible  for  Ebenezer,  despite  his  great  fatigue,  even  without  the 
additional  discomforts  of  fear  and  excitement.  His  mind  returned  to  Henry 
Burlingame,  who  in  search  of  information  about  his  parentage  had  sailed 
under  the  very  brigand  who  now  held  them  prisoner;  perhaps  aboard  this 
very  ship. 

"Would  he  were  here  now,  to  intercede  for  me!" 

He  considered  revealing  his  friendship  with  Burlingame  to  Captain 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  I  259  ] 

Pound,  but  rejected  the  idea.  He  had  no  idea  what  name  Henry  had  sailed 
under,  for  one  thing,  and  his  friend's  manner  of  parting  company  with 
his  shipmates  would  scarcely  raise  the  value,  in  the  Captain's  eyes,  of  an 
acquaintanceship  with  him.  Ebenezer  recalled  the  story,  told  him  in  the 
Plymouth  coach,  of  Burlingame's  adventure  with  the  mother  and  daughter 
whom  he'd  saved  from  rape,  and  who  had  rewarded  him  with,  among 
other  things,  the  first  real  clue  to  his  ancestry.  How  sorely  did  he  miss 
Henry  Burlingame!  He  could  not  even  remember  with  any  precision 
what  his  dear  friend  looked  like;  at  best  his  mental  picture  was  a  composite 
of  the  very  different  faces  and  voices  of  Burlingame  before  and  after  the 
adventures  in  America.  Bertrand's  remark  came  to  his  mind  again,  and 
brought  with  it  disturbing  memories  of  the  valet's  encounters  with  Henry: 
their  meeting  in  the  London  posthouse,  never  mentioned  by  his  friend, 
and  their  exchange  of  clothing  in  the  stable  of  the  King  o'  the  Seas.  Why 
had  Bertrand  not  been  surprised  to  learn  of  Burlingame's  piracy,  which 
had  so  astonished  Ebenezer? 

"Why  did  you  speak  so  ill  of  Burlingame?"  he  asked  aloud,,  but  in  re- 
ply heard  only  the  sound  of  snoring  from  the  other  side  of  the  great  keel 
timber  between  them. 

"In  such  straits  as  ours  the  wretch  can  sleep!7'  he  exclaimed  with  a  mix- 
ture of  wonder  and  exasperation,  but  had  not  the  heart  to  wake  him.  And 
eventually,  though  he  had  thought  the  thing  impossible,  he  too  succumbed 
to  sheer  exhaustion  and,  in  that  unlikeliest  of  places,  slept. 

By  morning  the  question  had  either  gone  from  his  mind  or  lost  its 
importance,  for  he  said  nothing  of  it  to  his  servant.  It  appeared  as  the  day 
went  on  that  their  treatment  at  the  hands  of  Captain  Pound  was  not  to 
be  altogether  merciless:  after  a  breakfast  of  bread,  cheese,  and  water— not 
punishment,  but  the  whole  crew's  morning  fare— they  were  released  from 
their  leg  irons,  given  some  purloined  clothing,  and  allowed  to  come  on 
deck,  where  they  found  themselves  riding  an  empty  expanse  of  ocean.  The 
Moor,  who  seemed  to  be  first  mate,  set  them  to  various  simple  chores 
like  oakum-picking  and  holystoning;  only  at  night  were  they  returned  to 
their  miserable  cell,  and  never  after  the  first  time  were  they  subjected  to 
the  leg  irons.  Captain  Pound  put  his  case  plainly  to  them:  he  was  per- 
suaded that  one  or  the  other  was  the  Laureate  but  put  no  faith  in  the 
assertions  of  either,  and  meant  therefore  to  hold  both  in  custody.  He  would 
say  no  more  regarding  the  reason  for  their  incarceration  than  that  he  was 
following  orders,  nor  of  its  probable  term  than  that  when  so  ordered  he 


[260]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

would  release  them.  In  the  meantime  they  had  only  to  look  to  their  be- 
havior, and  no  injury  would  be  done  them. 

From  all  this  Ebenezer  could  not  but  infer  that  his  captor  was  in  some 
manner  an  agent  of  the  archconspirator  John  Coode,  at  whose  direction 
he  had  lain  in  ambush  for  the  Poseidon.  The  man  would  stop  at  nothing 
to  reach  his  mischievous  ends!  And  how  devilish  clever,  to  let  the  pirates 
take  the  blame!  The  prospects  of  death  or  torture  no  longer  imminent,  the 
Laureate  allowed  himself  boundless  indignation  at  being  kidnaped— which 
mighty  sentiment,  however,  he  was  sufficiently  prudent  to  conceal  from  the 
kidnapers—and  at  the  same  time  could  not  but  commend  his  foe's  respect 
for  the  power  of  the  pen. 

"Tis  perfectly  clear,"  he  explained  to  Bertrand  in  a  worldly  tone. 
"Milord  Baltimore  had  more  than  the  muse  in  mind  when  he  commissioned 
the  Marylandiad.  He  knows  what  too  few  princes  will  admit:  that  a  good 
poet's  worth  two  friends  at  court  to  make  or  break  a  cause,  though  of  course 
the  man's  too  sensible  of  a  poet's  feelings  to  declare  such  a  thing  outright. 
Why  else  did  he  send  dear  Henry  to  watch  after  me,  d'you  think?  And 
why  should  Coode  waylay  me,  but  that  he  knows  my  influence  as  well  as 
Baltimore?  Ffaith,  two  formidable  antagonists!" 

If  Bertrand  was  impressed,  he  was  not  a  whit  consoled.  "God  pox  the 
twain  of  'em!" 

"Say  not  so/'  his  master  protested.  "  Tis  all  very  well  to  keep  an  open 
mind  on  trifles,  but  this  is  a  plain  case  of  justice  against  poltroonery,  and 
the  man  that  shrugs  compounds  the  felony." 

"Haply  so,"  Bertrand  said  with  a  shrug.  "I  know  your  Baltimore's  a  won- 
drous Papist,  but  I  doubt  me  he's  a  saint  yet,  for  all  that."  When  Ebenezer 
objected,  the  valet  went  on  to  repeat  a  story  he'd  heard  from  Lucy 
Robotham  aboard  the  Poseidon,  the  substance  of  which  was  that  Charles 
Calvert  was  in  the  employ  of  Rome.  "He  hath  struck  a  dev'lish  bargain 
with  the  Pope  to  join  the  Papists  and  the  salvages  against  the  Protestants 
and  butcher  every  soul  of  'em!  Then  when  he  hath  made  a  Romish  fortress 
out  of  Maryland,  the  Jesuits  will  swarm  like  maggots  o'er  the  landscape, 
and  ere  ye  can  say  'Our  Father'  the  entire  country  belongs  to  Rome!" 

"Pernicious  drivel!"  Ebenezer  scoffed.  "What  cause  hath  Baltimore  to 
do  such  evil?" 

"What  cause!  The  Pope  is  sworn  to  beatify  him  if  he  Romanizes  Mary- 
land, and  canonize  him  if  he  snatches  the  whole  country!  He'll  make  a 
bloody  saint  of  him!"  It  was  to  prevent  exactly  this  castastrophe,  Lucy 
Robotham  had  declared,  that  her  father  and  the  rest  had  joined  with  Coode 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  261  ] 

to  overthrow  the  Papists  in  Maryland,  coincidentally  with  the  deposition 
of  King  James,  and  to  petition  William  and  Mary  to  assume  the  government 
of  the  Province.  'Tet  old  Coode  was  ill  paid  for's  labors,"  Bertrand  said, 
"for  no  sooner  was  the  house  pulled  down  than  the  wreckers  fell  out 
amongst  themselves,  and  Baltimore  contrived  to  get  this  fellow  Nicholson 
the  post  of  Governor.  He  flies  King  William's  colors,  but  all  the  world 
knows  he's  a  Papist  at  heart:  when  he  fought  with  James  at  Hounslow 
Heath,  he  said  his  mass  with  the  rest,  and  'twas  an  Irish  Papist  troop  he 
took  to  Boston." 

"Dear  Father!"  Ebenezer  cried.  "What  a  sink  of  calumny  this  Robotham 
strumpet  was!  Nicholson's  as  honest  a  man  as  I!" 

"He  is  the  Duke  of  Bolton's  bastard,"  the  valet  went  on  stubbornly.  "And 
ere  he  took  up  with  the  Papists  he  was  aide-de-camp  to  Colonel  Kirke  in 
Africa.  They  do  declare  he  had  a  draught  of  wine  from  the  Colonel's  arse 
at  Mequinez,  to  please  the  Emperor  Muley  Ishmael " 

"Stop!" 

"Some  say  'twas  May-wine  and  others  Bristol  sherry;  Mistress  Lucy  her- 
self held  with  the  May-winers." 

"I'll  hear  no  more!"  the  poet  threatened,  but  to  his  every  protest 
Bertrand  made  the  same  replies.  "There's  a  lot  goes  on  that  your  honest 
wight  dreams  naught  of,"  or  "More  history's  made  in  the  bedchamber  than 
in  the  throne  room." 

"  'Tis  not  a  fart  to  me  who's  right  or  wrong,"  he  said  at  last.  "This  Coode 
hath  ginned  us  either  way,  and  we'll  ne'er  set  foot  on  land." 

"How  is  that?"  the  poet  demanded.  "I've  fared  no  worse  here  than 
aboard  the  Poseidon,  and  we're  only  to  be  held  till  farther  notice." 

"No  doubt!"  the  servant  said.  "But  if  thou'rt  such  a  cannon  as  Charles 
Calvert  thinks,  is't  likely  Coode.  will  turn  ye  loose  to  blast  him?  'Tis  a 
mystery  to  me  we're  still  alive!" 

Ebenezer  could  not  but  acknowledge  the  logic  of  this  position,  yet 
neither  could  he  be  immediately  terrified  by  it.  Captain  Pound  was 
unquestionably  formidable,  but  he  was  not  cruel:  although  in  the  incident 
related  by  Burlingame  he  had  apparently  condoned  rape,,  he  seemed  to 
draw  the  line  at  murder,  and  his  plundering  of  the  Poseidon  had  been 
almost  gentlemanly.  Moreover  he  was  not  even  avaricious,  as  pirates  go:  for 
weeks  on  end  the  shallop  cruised  with  apparent  aimkssness  from  north  to 
south  and  back  again,  flying  English  colors;  when  a  sail  appeared  on  the 
horizon  the  pirates  gave  chase,  but  upon  overhauling  the  other  ship  they 
would  salute  it  amiably,  and  Captain  Pound  would  inquire,  as  might  the 


L202J  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

captain  of  any  vessel  met  at  sea,  what  port  the  stranger  was  bound  for,  and 
with  what  cargo.  And  though  the  replies  were  sometimes  provocative— 
"Bark  Adelaide,  a  hundred  and  thirty  days  out  of  Falmouth,  for  Philadelphia 
with  silk  and  silverware,"  or  "Brig  Pilgrim  out  of  Jamaica  with  rum  for 
Boston"— only  twice  during  the  three  full  months  of  his  imprisonment  did 
Ebenezer  witness  acts  of  piracy,  and  these  occurred  consecutively  on  the 
same  early  August  day,  in  the  following  manner: 

For  several  days  the  shallop  had  ridden  hove  to,  though  the  weather  was 
fine  and  nothing  could  be  seen  on  any  quarter.  Just  after  the  midday  meal 
on  the  day  referred  to  the  lookout  spied  a  sail  to  westward,  and  after  ob- 
serving it  for  some  time  through  his  glass,  Captain  Pound  said,  "  "Tis  the 
Poseidon,  all  right.  Take  'em  below."  The  three  kidnaped  sailors  were 
ordered  to  their  quarters  in  the  fo'c'sle,  Bertrand  was  confined  to  the  sail- 
locker,  and  Ebenezer,  who  had  labored  all  morning  at  the  apparently  point- 
less job  of  shifting  cargo  in  the  hold,  was  sent  below  to  complete  the  task. 

"Poor  Captain  Meech!"  he  thought.  "This  devil  hath  lain  in  wait  to  ruin 
him!"  Though  he  deplored  the  idea  of  piracy  in  general  and  wished  neither 
Meech  nor  his  passengers  harm,  he  could  not  feel  pity  for  the  sailors  who 
had  done  him  such  an  outrage;  having  witnessed  already  the  ferocity  of 
the  pirates,  he  rather  relished  the  idea  of  a  fight  between  them  and  the 
Poseidon's  crew.  In  any  case  he  had  no  intention  of  missing  the  excitement 
on  deck:  during  the  chase,  which  lasted  no  more  than  an  hour,  he  toiled 
dutifully  in  the  hold,  moving  barrels  and  boxes  aft  in  order  (he  understood 
now)  to  make  room  for  additional  loot;  but  when  the  grapples  were 
thrown  and  all  but  a  handful  of  the  pirates  crouched  at  the  lee  rail  ready 
to  board,  he  climbed  to  the  edge  of  the  after  hatch  and  peered  over. 

His  heart  leaped  at  sight  of  the  familiar  vessel:  there  was  the  quarter-deck 
whereon  he'd  debated  with  Bertrand  the  right  demeanor  for  a  poet  and 
from  which  he'd  been  cast  providentially  into  the  sea;  there  on  the  poop 
stood  Captain  Meech,  grim-faced,  exhorting  his  men  as  before  not  to 
jeopardize  the  passengers'  safety  by  resisting  the  assault,  even  though  he 
had  mounted  a  brand  new  eight-pounder  in  the  bow. 

Ebenezer  clucked  his  tongue.  "Poor  wretch!" 

There  in  the  waist  the  ladies  squealed  and  swooned  as  before,  while  the 
gentlemen,  frowning  nervously,  were  led  off  to  their  cabins  for  robbing; 
there  by  the  foremast  the  sailors  huddled.  Ebenezer  saw  several  of  his 
molesters,  including  Ned,  and  many  new  faces  as  well.  The  pirates,  having 
been  at  sea  for  at  least  the  six  weeks  since  their  last  encounter,  took  no  pains 
to  disguise  their  lust  for  the  ladies  and  the  female  servants:  they  addressed 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  263  ] 

them  in  the  lewdest  terms;  pinched,  poked,  tweaked,  and  stroked.  Captain 
Pound  had  his  hands  full  preventing  wholesale  assault.  He  cursed  the  crew 
in  his  quiet  hissing  voice  and  threatened  them  with  keelhauling  if  they 
did  not  desist.  Even  so,  the  mate  himself,,  black  Boabdil,  driven  nearly 
berserk  by  the  sight  of  an  adolescent  beauty  who,  perhaps  seasick,  had  been 
brought  up  on  deck  in  her  nightdress,  flung  her  over  his  shoulder  and  made 
for  the  railing,  clearly  intending  to  have  at  her  in  traditional  pirate  fashion; 
it  took  the  Captain's  pistol  at  his  temple  to  restrain  the  Moor's  ardor  and 
send  him  off  growling  and  licking  his  lips.  The  girl,  happily,  had  fainted  at 
his  first  approach,  and  so  was  oblivious  to  her  honor's  narrow  rescue. 

So  desperate  did  the  situation  become  that  at  length  the  Captain  ordered 
all  hands  back  aboard  the  shallop,  though  the  pillaging  was  not  entirely 
finished,  and  cast  off  the  grapples.  He  carried  with  him  Captain  Meech, 
two  members  of  the  Poseidon's  crew,  and  one  of  her  longboats,  giving  as 
his  reasons  the  need  for  a  consultation  on  the  subject  of  longitude  and  the 
possibility  that  not  all  of  the  eight-pounder's  ammunition  had  been  con- 
fiscated; he  would  set  them  free,  he  declared,  as  soon  as  the  shallop  was 
out  of  range.  Then  he  set  the  still  grumbling  crew  to  stowing  the  fresh 
provisions  in  preparation  for  the  formal  dividing  of  the  spoils,  and  re- 
treated with  his  hostage  to  the  chartroom. 

Now  Ebenezer  had  of  course  abandoned  his  observation  post  when  the 
pirates  came  back  aboard,  and  so  dangerous  was  their  mood  that  before 
the  first  barrel  of  port  came  down  the  hatch  he  hid  himself  far  aft,  be- 
hind the  old  cargo,  to  avoid  their  wrath.  His  hiding  place  was  a  wide  black 
cranny,  perhaps  three  feet  high,  that  extended  on  both  sides  of  the  keel 
under  the  cabins,  as  far  aft  as  the  rudderpost  in  the  stern.  Since  the  space 
provided  access  to  the  steering-cables  running  from  the  wheel  on  deck 
through  blocks  to  the  rudderpost  itself,  it  was  provided  with  a  false  floor  over 
the  bilge,  on  which  the  Laureate  lay  supine  and  still.  Over  his  head,  which 
was  not  two  feet  from  the  stern,  he  heard  the  sound  of  chairs  scraping  on 
the  floor,  and  presently  a  pair  of  chuckling  voices. 

"By  Heav'n,  the  black  had  like  to  split  her  open!"  said  one,  and  Ebene- 
zer easily  identified  Captain  Pound.  "I  thought  he'd  pitch  me  to  the  fishes 
when  I  stopped  him!" 

The  other  laughed.  "He'd  ha'  spitted  her  through  for  all  I'd  cross  him, 
Tom,  I  swear'tl  Twere  a  pity,  though,  I'll  grant  ye;  she's  a  gentleman's 
morsel,  not  a  beef-bull's,  and  I  mean  to  try  her  ere  we  raise  Lands  End." 

Ebenezer  was  not  surprised  to  hear  the  voice  of  Captain  Meech,  but  he 
was  horrified  at  the  intimacy  suggested  by  their  conversation. 


[  264  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Do  ye  look  for  trouble?"  Meech  asked. 

"God  knows,  Jim.  Boabdil  is  a  wild  one  when  he  sets  his  cap  for  coney. 
They  all  need  a  week  ashore,  or  I'm  a  dead  man/' 

"Well,  I've  no  orders  for  ye  about  your  poet,  but  I  did  bring  ye  this — 
they  smuggled  it  aboard  at  Cedar  Point." 

There  was  a  pause  while  Meech  brought  forth  whatever  it  was  he  re- 
ferred to,  then  a  slap  as  of  papers  on  the  table.  Ebenezer  strained  his  ears, 
though  every  word  thus  far  he  had  heard  distinctly.  He  forgot  completely 
about  the  original  purpose  of  his  concealment. 

"A  Secret  Historie  of  the  Voiage  Up  the  Bay  of  Chesapeake"  Pound 
read  aloud.  "What  foolery  is  this?" 

"No  foolery,"  Meech  laughed.  "Old  Baltimore  would  cut  your  throat 
for't!  Look  on  the  backsides." 

The  papers  rustled.  "Tore  God!" 

"Aye."  Meech  confirmed  whatever  realization  his  friend  had  reached. 
"They  got  it  off  Dick  Smith  in  Calvert  County— God  knows  howl  He's 
Baltimore's  surveyor  general." 

"But  what  am  I  to  do  with  it?" 

"They  said  Coode  himself  will  come  fort  in  a  month  or  so.  This  is  only  a 
part  of  the  whole  Journal,  from  what  I  gather;  if  he  can  find  the  rest  ere 
things  get  settled,  then  Nicholson  can't  touch  him.  Right  now  the  place  is 
a  bedlam,  Tom:  ye  should  see  St.  Mary's  City!  Andros  came  and  went; 
Lawrence  is  back  in;  Henry  Jowles  hath  Ninian  Beale's  old  job;  old 
Robotham's  back  in,  that  hath  the  daughter  ye  liked—remember  Lucy?" 

"Aye,"  said  Pound,  "from  the  last  time.  She  hath  a  birthmark  on  her 
arse,  you  told  me." 

"Nay,  Tom,  no  birthmark!  Tis  the  Great  Bear  in  freckles,  I  sweaft,  and 
the  pointers  point " 

"No  more!"  Pound  laughed.  "I  remember  where  the  polestar  was,  that 
all  men's  needles  aimed  at.  Go  on  with  Maryland,  now,  ere  ye  have  to 
leave." 

"Marry,  what  a  wench!"  Meech  said.  "Where  was  I?  Did  I  tell  ye  about 
Andros?"  He  went  on  to  relate  that  John  Coode's  brother-in-law,  Neamiah 
Blackistone,  so  influential  under  the  late  Governor  Copley,  had  died  in 
disgrace  last  February  after  the  Commissioners  of  the  Customs-house,  on 
evidence  from  the  "Burlingame's  Journdl  documents"  smuggled  to  Lord 
Baltimore  by  Nicholson,  had  charged  him  with  graft.  Sir  Edmund  Andros 
of  Virginia  had  returned  to  St.  Mary's  in  May  with  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence, 
whom  Copley  had  impeached,  and  made  him  President  of  the  Council 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [265] 

and  acting  Governor  of  Maryland— to  the  rebels'  dismay,  since  it  was 
Lawrence  who  had  smuggled  the  notorious  Assembly  Journal  of  1691  to 
Nicholson.  Then  Nicholson  had  landed,  embraced  his  good  friend  Law- 
rence, and  made  a  Maryland  councillor  out  of  Edward  Randolph,  the 
Jacobite  Royal  Surveyor  so  well  known  up  and  down  the  colonies  for  his 
prankish  contempt  of  provincial  authorities.  But  so  far  from  thanking  his 
old  superior  Andros  for  governing  in  his  absence,  Nicholson  had  promptly 
called  that  government  illegal,  declared  null  and  void  all  statutes  passed 
thereunder,  and  demanded  (thus  far  in  vain)  that  Andros  return  the  five- 
hundred-pound  honorarium  awarded  him  for  his  services  by  Lawrence's 
Council!  The  insurrectionists,.  Meech  declared,  were  making  the  most  of 
this  rebuff  to  turn  Andros  against  Nicholson;  their  leader  Coode  still  held 
with  impunity  the  post  of  sheriff  in  St.  Mary's  County  and  a  lieutenant- 
colonelcy  in  the  county  militia  under  Lawrence  himself,  and  in  these  capac- 
ities drew  his  salary  from  the  very  government  he  was  doing  his  best  to 
overthrow.  Andros  had  already  allowed  Coode  the  services  of  his  "coast- 
guard" Captain  Pound,  of  course,  and  in  addition  had  virtually  promised 
Coode  asylum  in  Virginia  if,  as  was  feared  imminent,  Nicholson  opened 
cases  against  him,  his  ally  Kenelm  Cheseldyne  of  the  Assembly,  and  old 
Blackistone's  widow.  Tlie  insurrectionists,  Meech  said  further,  were  en- 
gaged both  defensively  and  offensively:  they  were  ransacking  the  Province 
for  the  other  portions  of  the  incriminating  Journal,  which  they  understood 
to  be  cached  with  various  Papists  and  Jacobites,  and  at  the  same  time  they 
were  inciting  the  Piscataway  Indians  to  rebel,  perhaps  in  league  with  other 
Indian  nations. 

"Many,  'tis  a  perilous  game  they  play!"  said  Pound.  "I'm  happy  to  be 
at  sea!" 

"I'm  happy  to  be  sailing  east  to  London,  Tom;  this  Coode  would  bum  a 
province  on  a  bet.  Yet  he  doth  pay  handsomely." 

"Speaking  whereof " 

"Aye,"  Meech  said.  There  was  another  pause.  "They  gave  me  this  to 
give  ye  for  holding  Cooke,  and  there's  another  like  it  for  keeping  these 
papers."  Nicholson  had  learned  of  the  Journal's  absence,  he  explained,  and 
was  turning  the  Province  upside  down  to  find  it— hence  the  rebels'  decision 
to  remove  it  from  the  colony  altogether  until  things  settled  down.  Pound 
was  to  cruise  in  his  present  latitude  for  six  weeks,  or  until  a  ship  came  out 
from  Coodte  to  fetch  the  papers.  At  that  time  he  would  receive  his  fee  and, 
in  all  likelihood,  instructions  concerning  his  prisoners. 


[  266  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Good  enough,"  said  Captain  Pound.  "Now  let  me  give  ye  your  share 
from  the  last  trip." 
"Did  ye  do  well  by't,  Tom?" 

"Not  bad,"  Pound  allowed,  and  added  that  since  the  terms  of  their 
agreement  gave  all  the  cash  to  the  pirates  and  all  the  jewels  to  Meech,  who 
could  easily  sell  them  in  London,  it  was  to  be  expected  that  on  westbound 
trips  the  pirates  would  fare  as  well  or  better,  but  on  eastbound  trips,  when 
many  of  the  passengers  would  have  nothing  left  but  the  family  jewels, 
Meech  would  get  the  lion's  share.  The  transaction  was  completed;  Meech 
made  ready  to  depart  in  the  longboat,  and  Ebenezer,  who  had  heard  the 
entire  colloquy  in  horror  and  astonishment,  prepared  to  evacuate  his  hiding- 
place,  the  pirates  having  long  since  finished  loading  the  hold. 

"One  more  thing,"  Meech  said,  and  the  poet  scrambled  back  to  hear. 
"If  Coode  hath  not  found  the  rest  of  his  Journal  by  the  time  he  fetches 
this  part,  tell  him  I've  a  notion  where  to  look  for't,  but  'twill  cost  him 
twenty  pound  if  he  finds  it  there.  Did  ye  see  what's  writ  on  the  back  of 
all  those  pages?" 

"You  mean  this  Voiage  Up  the  Bay  of  Chesapeake?  What  is  it?" 

Meech  explained  that  Kenelm  Cheseldyne  had  recorded  the  Journal  of 
the  1691  Assembly  on  the  reverse  pages  of  a  bound  quarto  manuscript 
provided  him  by  Coode,  which  happened  to  be  an  old  diary  the  rebel  had 
acquired  while  hiding  out  in  Jamestown.  "  'Twas  a  wight  named  Smith 
wrote  the  diary— damnedest  thing  ye  ever  read!— and  they  all  call  it  'Smith's 
book'  for  safety's  sake,  the  Papists  as  well  as  the  rebels,  though  few  of  'em 
e'er  laid  eyes  on't."  What  would  be  more  natural,  then,  he  asked  of  Pound, 
than  for  Baltimore  to  distribute  the  portions  for  safekeeping  to  various 
confederates  of  the  same  surname? 

Ebenezer  began  to  sweat.  Pound,  to  his  great  relief,  laughed  at  the 
conjecture  as  preposterous,  but  promised  to  relay  it  to  Coode's  agents  for 
what  it  was  worth. 

"Which  is  twenty  pounds,"  Meech  declared  merrily.  "Come,  threaten  me 
to  my  boat,  now,  or  they'll  see  our  game.  I'll  be  back  with  the  Smoker's 
Eket  next  spring  or  before." 

"I'll  ride  the  Line  for  ye,  Jim,"  Pound  promised— referring  to  the  parallel 
of  latitude  extending  from  the  Azores  to  the  Virginia  Capes,  along  which 
the  fleets  customarily  sailed  for  ease  of  navigation. 

Ebenezer  scrambled  out  of  his  cranny,  over  boxes  and  barrels,  and  up 
ths  ladder  to  $ie  hatch,  nearly  sick  with  indignation  and  excitement.  He 
Was  bursting  to  tell  Bertrand  all  he'd  heard;  in  the  considerable  uproar 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  267  ] 

that  greeted  the  appearance  of  the  two  captains  he  was  able  to  climb  to 
the  deck  and  move  forward  to  the  fo'c'sle  companionway  (which  led  also 
to  his  berth  in  the  rope-locker)  without  attracting  undue  notice. 

The  men  were  indeed  in  mutinous  spirits,  ready  to  make  trouble  at  the 
slightest  excuse.  Grudgingly  they  released  the  two  terrified  sailors  from  the 
Poseidon,  whom  they  had  tormented  throughout  the  captains'  private  con- 
versation; their  faces  darkened  as  Meech's  longboat,  under  the  barrels  of 
their  pistols,  struck  out  for  its  mother  ship  on  the  north  horizon. 

Ebenezer  slipped  through  the  foVsle  to  his  cell— which  customarily  re- 
mained unlocked— and  told  Bertrand  the  story  of  Meech's  treachery, 
Coode's  latest  intrigues,  and  the  valuable  document  in  the  Captain's 
quarters. 

"I  must  lay  hands  on  those  papers!"  he  exclaimed.  "How  Coode  came 
by  them  I  can't  imagine,  but  Baltimore  shall  have  them  backl  I  must  steal 
into  Pound's  cabin  and  filch  'em  ere  Coode's  ship  comes." 

Bertrand  shook  his  head.  "Marry,  sir,  'tis  not  thy  fight.  A  poet  hath  no 
part  in  these  things." 

"Not  so,"  Ebenezer  replied.  "I  vowed  to  fling  myself  into  the  arms  of 
Life,  and  what  is  life  but  the  taking  of  sides?  Besides,  Fve  private  reasons 
for  wanting  that  Journal."  How  pleased  would  Burlingame  be,  he  reflected 
happily,  to  learn  that  Captain  John  Smith  had  a  secret  diary!  Who  knew 
but  what  these  very  papers  were  the  key  poor  Henry  so  long  had  sought  to 
unlock  the  mystery  of  his  parentage? 

"I  see  those  reasons  plain  enough,"  the  valet  declared.  "The  book  would 
fetch  a  pretty  price  if  ye  put  it  up  for  bids.  But  'twill  do  ye  small  good  to 
steal  it  when  we've  no  more  than  a  fortnight  left  on  earth.  Marry,  did  ye 
see  what  spirits  the  Moor  is  in?  If  this  Coode  doth  not  kill  us,  the  pirates 
will." 

But  the  Laureate  did  not  agree.  "This  faction  may  be  our  salvation,  not 
our  doom."  He  described  the  delicate  atmosphere  on  deck.  "Tis  Pound 
that  holds  us  prisoner,  not  the  crew/'  he  said.  "They've  naught  to  gain  by 
killing  us  if  they  mutiny,  but  they  may  well  kill  him.  What's  more,  they 
know  naught  of  the  Journal.  Belike  they'll  make  us  members  of  the  crew, 
and  once  the  turmoil  hath  subsided  I'll  find  a  way  to  steal  the  book.  Then 
we  can  watch  our  chance  to  slip  ashore.  Or  better,  once  we're  pirates  like 
the  rest  we  can  hide  aboard  some  ship  we're  sent  to  plunder;  they'd  never 
miss  us.  Let  'em  mutiny,  I  say;  we'll  join  them!" 

As  if  the  last  were  a  command,  an  instant  later  a  shout  went  up  on  deck, 
followed  at  once  by  a  brace  of  pistol-shots.  Ebenezer  and  Bertrand  hurried 


[  268  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

up  to  declare  their  allegiance  to  the  mutineers,  who  they  readily  assumed 
had  taken  charge  of  the  shallop,  and  indeed  they  found  Boabdil  at  the  helm, 
grinning  at  the  men  assembled  in  the  waist.  But  instead  of  lying  dead  on  the 
deck,  Captain  Pound  stood  beside  him,  arms  crossed,  a  smoking  pistol  in 
each  hand  and  a  grim  smile  upon  his  face,  and  it  was  one  of  the  crew,  a 
one-eyed  Carolina  boy  named  Patch,  who  sprawled,  face-down  and  bleeding, 
.on  the  poop  companionway. 

"We'll  put  into  port  when  I  say  so,"  Pound  declared,  and  returned  the 
pistols  to  his  sash.  Two  men  stepped  forward  to  retrieve  their  wounded 
shipmate. 

"Over  the  side  with  him/'  the  Captain  ordered,  and  despite  the  fact  that 
he  was  not  yet  dead,  the  Carolinian  was  tumbled  into  the  ocean. 

"The  next  man  I  shan't  waste  a  ball  on,"  Pound  threatened,  and  did  not 
even  look  back  to  see  his  victim  flounder  in  the  wake. 

"Why  is  the  Moor  so  happy?"  Bertrand  whispered  to  Ebenezer.  "Ye  said 
he  was  the  wrathfulest  of  all." 

The  poet,  stunned  by  his  first  sight  of  death,  shook  his  head  and 
swallowed  furiously  to  keep  from  being  ill. 

Just  then  the  lookout  cried  "Sail,  ho!  Sail  to  eastward!"  The  pirates 
looked  to  see  a  three-master  heading  in  their  direction,  but  were  too 
chastened  to  display  any  great  interest. 

"There,  now!"  laughed  Captain  Pound,  after  examining  the  stranger 
through  his  glass.  "If  Patch  had  held  his  peace  ten  minutes  more,  he'd  not 
be  feeding  sea-crabs!  D'ye  know  what  s'hip  stands  yonder,  men?" 

They  did  not,  nor  did  the  prospect  of  robbing  it  fill  them  with  enthusi- 
asm. 

"  Tis  the  London  ship  I've  l$id  for  these  two  weeks,"  Pound  declared, 
"whilst  you  wretches  were  conspiring  in  the  fo'c'sle!  Did  ye  ne'er  hear  tell 
of  a  brigantine  called  the  Cy/>rwn?" 

On  hearing  this  name  the  crew  cheered  lustily,  again  and  again.  They 
slapped  one  another's  backs,  leaped  and  danced  about  the  deck,  and  at  the 
Captain's  orders  sprang  as  if  possessed  to  ratlines,  sheets,  halyards,  and 
braces.  Topsails  and  forestaysail  were  broken  out,  the  helm  was  put  hard 
OVQT,  and  the  shallop  raced  to  meet  her  newest  prey  head-on. 

"What  is  this  Cyprian^  that  changed  their  minds  so  lightly?"  Bertrand 
whispered. 

"I  do  not  know,"  his  master  answered,  sorry  to  see  the  mutiny  come  to 
naught.  "But  she  hath  sprung  from  the  sea  like  her  namesake,  and  haply 
we'll  fyave  cause  to  love  her,  Lpok  sharp  for  your  chance  to  slip  aboard;  I 
hope  to  steal  the  Journal  if  I  can." 


15:    THE  RAPE  OF  THE  CYPRIAN;  ALSO,  THE  TALE  OF 
HICKTOPEAKE,  KING  OF  ACCOMACK,  AND  THE 
GREATEST    PERIL    THE    LAUREATE     HAS    FALLEN 
INTO  THUS  FAR 


IN  LESS  THAN  A  QUARTER  OF  AN  HOXJR  THE  SHALLOP  AND  THE  BRIGANTINE, 

sailing  smartly  on  opposite  reaches,  were  within  cannon-range  of  each  other. 
Dozens  of  the  brigantine's  passengers  were  crowded  forward  to  see  the 
shallop,  possibly  the  first  vessel  they'd  met  in  weeks;  they  waved  hands  and 
kerchiefs  in  innocent  salutation.  The  pirates,  every  idle  hand  of  whom  was 
similarly  preoccupied,  responded  with  a  fearsome  cry  and  fired  a  round  into 
the  water  dead  ahead  of  their  quarry.  It  was  not  until  then,  when  the  others 
screamed  and  ran  for  cover,  that  Ebenezer  began  to  guess  in  a  general  way 
what  was  afoot:  every  one  of  the  passengers  he  could  see  was  female. 

"Dear  Heav'n!"  he  breathed. 

The  captain  of  the  brigantine  realized  the  shallop's  intention  and  came 
about  to  run  north  before  the  wind,  at  the  same  time  firing  on  the  attacker; 
but  his  defense  came  too  late.  Anticipating  exactly  such  a  maneuver, 
Captain  Pound  had  his  crew  already  stationed  to  follow  suit,  and  the  shallop 
was  under  way  on  the  new  course  before  the  brigantine  finished  setting  her 
sails.  Moreover,  although  the  several  square-rigged  sails  of  the  brigantine 
were  better  for  running  before  the  wind  than  the  fore-and-aft  rig  of  her 
pursuer,  the  shallop's  smaller  size  and  lighter  weight  more  than  compen- 
sated for  the  difference.  Captain  Pound  ordered  his  men  not  to  return  the 
musket-  and  pistol-fire;  instead,  taking  the  helm  himself,  he  cut  so  close 
under  the  brigantine's  stern  that  the  name  Cyprian,  on  a  banner  held  by 
carved  oak  cupids,  was  plainly  legible  on  her  transom.  At  the  very  moment 
when  the  shallop's  bowsprit  seemed  about  to  pierce  the  victim's  stern,  he 
veered  a  few  degrees  to  starboard;  the  cannoneer  in  the  bow  fired  a  ball 
point-blank  into  the  brigantine's  rudder,  and  the  chase  was  over.  The 
Cyprian's  crew  scrambled  to  take  in  sail  before  the  helpless  vessel  capsized. 
By  the  time  the  shallop  came  about  and  retraced  her  course  the  brigantine 
was  rolling  under  bare  poles  in  the  swell;  the  crew  stood  with  upraised  arms, 
the  first  mate  ran  a  white  flag  up  the  main  halyards,  and  the  captain,  hands 
clasped  behind  him,  waited  on  the  poop  deck  for  the  worst. 


[  2JO  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

The  pirates  were  beside  themselves.  They  thronged  to  the  rail,  shouting 
obscenities  and  making  the  lewdest  gestures.  It  was  all  Boabdil  could  do 
to  bring  the  shallop  alongside,  so  preoccupied  were  they  all  with  their  joy: 
the  Moor  himself  had  stripped  off  all  but  his  tall  red  headgear  and  stood 
like  a  black  nightmare  at  the  helm.  At  length  the  grapples  were  made 
fast,  the  sails  struck,  and  the  two  ships  lashed  together  along  their  beams, 
so  that  they  rode  like  mated  seabirds  on  the  waves.  Then  with  shrieks  and 
howls  the  pirates  swarmed  over  the  rails,  cursing  and  stumbling  in  their 
haste.  The  Cyprian's  crew  backed  off  in  fright,  but  no  one  paid  them  the 
slightest  attention:  indeed,  Captain  Pound  had  finally  to  force  three  of  his 
men  at  pistol-point  to  tie  them  to  the  masts.  The  rest  had  no  thought  for 
anything  but  breaking  open  the  companionway  and  cabin  doors,  which  the 
terrified  passengers  had  bolted  from  inside. 

Their  savagery  made  Ebenezer  blanch.  Beside  him  where  he  stood  near 
the  shallop's  foremast  was  the  oldest  member  of  the  pirate  crew,  Carl,  the 
sailmaker— a  wizened,  evil-appearing  little  man  in  his  sixties  with  a  short, 
dirty  beard  and  no  teeth  at  all— chuckling  and  shaking  his  head  at  the  .scene. 

"Is  the  ship  full  of  women?"  the  Laureate  asked  him. 

The  old  man  nodded  mirthfully.  "She's  the  whore-boat  out  o'  London." 
Once  or  twice  a  year,  he  explained,  the  Cyprian's  captain  took  on  a  load  of 
impoverished  young  ladies  who  were  willing  to  prostitute  themselves  for 
six  months  in  the  colonies,  where  the  shortage  of  women  was  acute.  The 
girls  were  transported  without  charge;  the  enterprising  captain  received  not 
only  their  fares  but— in  the  case  of  girls  with  special  qualifications  such  as 
virginity,  respectability,  or  extreme  youth  or  comeliness— a  handsome  bonus 
as  well  from  the  brothel-masters  who  came  to  Philadelphia  from  all  over 
the  provinces  for  the  purpose  of  replenishing  or  augmenting  their  staffs.  As 
for  the  girls,  some  had  already  been  prostitutes  in  London,  others  were 
women  rendered  desperate  by  poverty  or  other  circumstances,  and  some 
simply  hard-reasoning  young  serving  girls  bent  on  reaching  America  at  any 
cost,  who  found  six  months  of  prostitution  more  attractive  than  the 
customary  four-year  indenture  of  the  colonial  servant 

"Every  pirate  on  the  coast  keeps  his  eye  out  for  the  Cyprian  this  time  o' 
year/'  the  sailmaker  said.  "There's  better  than  a  hundred  wenches  behind 
that  door.  Lookee  there  at  Boabdil!" 

Ebenezer  saw  the  naked  Moor  push  aside  his  shipmates  and  raise  a  huge 
maul  that  he  had  found  nearby,  probably  teft  on  deck  by  the  brigantine's 
carpenter.  With  one  blow  he  splintered  the  door  and  dived  headlong  in- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  2JI  ] 

side,  the  others  close  behind  him.  A  moment  later  the  air  was  split  with 
screams,  and  curses. 

Ebenezer's  knees  trembled.  "Poor  wretches!  Poor  wretches!" 

"This!"  scoffed  Carl  the  sailmaker,  and  cackled  at  the  poet's  consterna- 
tion. "  'Tis  but  a  bloody  prayer  meeting,  this  is!  Ye  should  have  sailed  last 
year  with  old  Tom  Tew  of  Newport,  as  I  did.  One  time  we  sailed  from 
Libertatia  to  the  coast  of  Araby,  and  in  the  Red  Sea  we  overhauled  one  o' 
the  Great  Mogul's  ships  with  pilgrims  bound  for  Mecca;  a  hundred  gun  she 
carried,  but  we  boarded  her  without  losing  a  man,  and  what  do  ye  think  we 
found?  Sixteen  hundred  virgins,  sir!  Not  a  maidenhead  more  nor  less! 
Sixteen  hundred  virgins  bound  for  Mecca,  the  nicest  little  Moors  ye  e'er 
laid  eyes  upon,  and  not  above  a  hundred  of  us!  Took  us  a  day  and  a  night 
to  pop  'em  all— Frenchmen,  Dutchmen,  Portogeezers,  Africans,  and  Eng- 
lishmen, we  were— and  ere  we  had  done,  the  deck  Iooke4  like  a  butcher's 
block.  There  is  not  the  like  o'  that  day  and  night  in  the  history  of  the 
lickerish  world,  I  swear't!  I  cut  a  brace  myself,  for  all  I  was  coming  on  to 
sixty— little  brown  twins  they  were,  and  tight  as  a  timber-hitch,  and  I've 
ne'er  got  up  the  old  fid  since!" 

He  rambled  on,  but  Ebenezer  could  not  bear  to  hear  him  out.  For  one 
thing,  the  scene  on  deck  was  too  arresting  for  divided  attention:  the  pirates 
dragged  out  their  victims  in  ones  and  twos,  a-swoon  or  awake,  at  pistol- 
point  or  by  main  strength.  He  saw  girls  assaulted  on  the  decks,  on  the 
stairways,  at  the  railings,  everywhere,  in  every  conceivable  manner.  None 
was  spared,  and  the  prettier  prizes  were  clawed  at  by  two  and  three  at  a 
time.  Boabdil  appeared  with  one  over  each  shoulder,  kicking  and  scratching 
him  in  vain:  as  he  presented  one  to  Captain  Pound  on  the  quarter-deck, 
the  other  wriggled  free  and  tried  to  escape  her  monstrous  fate  by  scrambling 
up  the  mizzen  ratlines.  The  Moor  allowed  her  a  fair  head  start  and  then 
climbed  slowly  in  pursuit,  calling  to  her  in  voluptuous  Arabic  at  every  step. 
Fifty  feet  up,  where  any  pitch  of  the  hull  is  materially  amplified  by  the 
height,  the  girl's  nerve  failed:  she  thrust  bare  arms  and  legs  through  the 
squares  of  the  rigging  and  hung  for  dear  life  while  Boabdil,  once  he  had 
come  up  from  behind,  ravished  her  unmercifully.  Down  on  the  shallop  the 
sailmaker  clapped  his  hands  and  chortled;  Ebenezer,  heartsick,  turned  away. 

He  saw  Bertrand  a  little  distance  behind  him,  watching  with  undisguised 
avidity,  and  recalled  his  plan.  The  time  was  propitious:  every  member  of 
the  shallop's  crew  except  old  Carl  was  busy  at  his  pleasure,  and  even 
Captain  Pound,  who  normally  stood  aloof  from  all  festivities,  had  found 


[  272  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

the  Moor's  trophy  too  tempting  to  refuse  and  had  disappeared  with  her 
into  the  brigantine's  cabin. 

"Look  sharp!"  he  whispered  to  the  valet.  "I'm  going  for  the  Journal  now, 
and  then  we'll  try  to  slip  aboard  the  Cyprian!'  And  ignoring  Bertrand's 
frightened  look,  he  made  his  way  carefully  aft  to  the  doorway  of  Captain 
Pound's  quarters.  It  required  no  searching  to  find  what  he  sought:  the 
Journal  lay  in  plain  view  on  the  table,  its  loose  pages  held  fast  by  a  fungus- 
coral  paperweight.  Ebenezer  snatched  it  up  and  scanned  the  first  page 
with  pounding  heart:  a  transcription  of  the  Assembly's  convening,  mean- 
ingless to  him.  But  on  the  redo 

"Ah!" 

A  Secret  Historic  of  the  Voiage  Up  the  Bay  of  Chesapeake  From 
Jamestowne  in  Virginia,  he  read,  Undertaken  in  the  Yeer  of  Our  Lord 
1608  By  C°»*  Jno  Smith,  &  Faithfullie  Set  Down  in  Its  Severall  Parts  By 
the  Same.  And  Below,  in  an  antique,  almost  illegible  hand,  the  narrative 
commenced,  not  as  a  diary  at  all  but  as  a  summary  account,  probably  meant 
as  the  initial  draft  of  part  of  the.  author's  well-known  Generall  Historie  of 
Virginia: 

Seven  souldiers,  six  gentlemen,  Dr  Russell  the  Chirurgeon  &  my  selfe  did 
embark  from  the  towne  of  Kecoughtan,  in  Virginia^  in  June  of  the  present 
yeer  1608, 

To  wdk  a  wayless  Way  with  uncouth  Pace, 
Wch  yet  no  Christian  Man  did  ever  trace.  .  .  . 

Much  farther  than  this  the  poet  dared  not  read  at  the  moment,  but  he 
could  not  refrain  from  thumbing  rapidly  through  the  rest  of  the  manuscript 
in  search  of  the  name  Henry  Burlingame.  It  did  not  take  long  to  find: 
No  sooner  was  the  King  asleep,  he  read  on  an  early  page,  then  I  straightway 
made  for  the  doore,  and  w*  have  fulfill'd  his  everie  wish,  had  not  Ld 
Burlingame  prevented  me,  and  catching  hold  of  my  arme,  declared,  That 
he  did  protest  my  doing  this  thing.  .  .  . 

"Burlingame  a  Lord!"  Ebenezer  exclaimed  to  himself,  and  joyfully  thrust 
the  manuscript  into  his  shirt,  holding  it  fast  under  the  waist  of  his  breeches. 
He  peeped  out  onto  the  deck.  All  seemed  clear:  the  only  man  in  a  position 
to  spy  him  was  the  Moor  in  the  Cyprian's  mizzenrigging,  and  he  was 
occupied  with  climbing  down  for  further  conquests,  leaving  his  first  quite 
ravaged  in  the  ratlines.  The  sun  was  setting;  its  long  last  rays  lit  the  scene 
unnaturally,  from  the  side,  with  rose  and  gold. 

"Hi  ho,  Master  Eben!" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  273  ] 

The  Laureate  quailed  at  the  salute,  which  greeted  him  as  soon  as  he 
stepped  out  of  Captain  Pound's  cabin.  But  the  voice  was  Bertrand's. 

"Stupid  fellow!  He'll  do  me  in  yet!"  He  looked  for  the  valet  in  vain  on 
the  shallop's  deck:  the  sailmaker  stood  alone  by  the  railing. 

"Come  along,  Master  Eben!  Over  here!"  The  voice  came  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  brigantine.  Horrified,  Ebenezer  saw  Bertrand  standing  in  the 
vessel's  stern,  about  to  have  at  a  plump  lass  whom  he  was  bending  over 
the  taffrail,  Ebenezer  signaled  frantically  for  the  man  to  come  back,  but 
Bertrand  laughed  and  shook  his  head.  "They've  asked  us  to  join  'em!"  he 
called,  and  turned  to  his  work. 

For  Ebenezer  to  slip  aboard  unnoticed  was  unthinkable  in  the  face  of 
this  defection.  All  over  the  Cyprian  the  debauch  continued;  the  hapless 
women,  gilded  by  the  sunlight,  had  for  the  most  part  abandoned  hope, 
and  instead  of  running,  submitted  to  their  attackers  with  pleas  for  mercy 
or  stricken  silence.  The  poet  shuddered  and  fled  to  his  cell  in  the  rope- 
locker,  determined,  since  he  could  not  make  his  escape,  to  take  advantage 
of  the  diversion  to  read  through  the  precious  manuscript.  He  borrowed 
a  lamp  from  the  fo'c'sle,  closed  the  heavy  door,  took  out  the  Journal,  and 
lay  on  his  bed  of  tattered  sailcloth,  where  he  read  as  follows: 

Seven  souldiers,  six  gentlemen,  D1*  Russell  the  Chinirgeon  &  my  selfe  did 
embark  from  the  towne  of  Kecoughtan,  in  Virginia,  in  June  of  the  present  yeer 
1608, 

To  -walk  a  wayless  Way  with  uncouth  Pace, 
Wcl1  yet  no  Christian  Man  did  ever  trace.  , 

We  took  for  the  voiage  a  barge  of  three  tonnes  burthen,  to  the  provisioning 
-whereof  I  earlie  set  the  great  Liverpooler  Henry  Burlingame,  that  I  durst  not 
leave  behind  to  smirch  my  name  with  slander  &  calumnie.  Yet  scarce  had  we 
dropt  Kecoughtan  to  Southward,  then  I  found  the  wretch  had  play'd  me  false; 
to  feed  the  companie  of  fifteene  men  the  summer  long,  he  had  supply9  d  one 
meager  sack  of  weevilie  oats  and  a  barricoe  of  cloudie  water!  I  enquir'd  of  him, 
Wd  he  starve  us?  Or  did  he  think  to  make  me  turn  tayle  home?  Wch  latter  hope 
I  knew,  he  shar'd  with  all  the  idle  Gentlemen  his  fellows.  Then  I  set  them  dl 
to  short  rations  and  fishing  over  the  gunwhales,  albeit  I  knew  no  means  to  cooke 
a  fish  in  the  barge.  The  truth  was,  I  reckoned  on  a  landfall  within  two  dayes,  but 
said  naught  of  it,  and  what  fish  they  caught  I  threw  back  in  the  Bay.  I  then 
commenced  instructing  one  &  dl  in  the  art  of  sayles  &  tiller,  w°*  matters  the 
souldiers  took  to  readilie  and  the  Gentlemen  complayn'd  of — none  lowder  then 
Ld  Burlingame,  that  I  had  a-bayling  water  from  the  bilge. 

This  Burlingame  wd  say  to  his  neighbour,  What  doth  the  Captain  reck  it  if 
we  perish?  What  time  he  getteth  in  a  pickle,  we  Gentlemen  must  grubb  him  out, 
eke  some  naked  Salvage  wench  ftieth  down  from  Heaven  to  save  his  neck.  By 


[  274  I  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

woh  he  referr'd  to  Pocahontas,  Powhcttans  daughter,  that  some  months  past  had 
rescu'd  me,  and  I  saw,  he  meant  to  devill  me  through  the  voiage. 

Next  day  we  rays'd  a  cape  of  land,  lying  due  North  of  Kecoughtant  and  the 
companie  rejoyc'd  thereat,  inasmuch  as  there  bellies  all  complctyn'd  of  meale  & 
clowdie  water.  We  made  straightway  to  shoar,  whereupon  we  found  a  pair  of 
fearsome  Salvages,  arm'd  with  bone-poynt  speares.  I  made  bold  to  salute  them, 
and  was  pleas' d  to  learn,  they  spake  a  tongue  like  Powhatans,  to  wch  Emperour 
they  declar'd  them  selves  subject.  The  fiercenesse  of  these  men  was  in  there 
paynt  alone;  they  were  but  spearing  fish  along  the  shallows.  Upon  my  entreatie, 
they  led  us  to  there  town  and  to  there  King,  that  was  call'd  Hicktopeake. 

Then  follow' d  an  adventure,  wch  I  cannot  well  include  among  my  Histories. 
I  shall  set  it  down  upon  these  privie  pages,  for  that  it  shews  afresh  that. enmity 
I  spake  of,  betwixt  Ld  Burlingame  &  my  selfe,  wch  led  us  anon  to  the  verie  doore 
of  Death.  .  .  . 

"Mercy!"  Ebenezer  cried,  and  turned  the  page. 

This  Hicktopeake,  then,  bade  us  well  come  to  his  Kingdom,  the  woh  he  did 
call  Accomack,  and  lay'd  before  us  a  sumptuous  meale.  I  observed  him,  while 
that  we  ate,  and  I  sweare  him  to  be  the  comliest,  proper,  civill  Salvage  we  in- 
counter1  d.  I  din'd  well,  as  is  my  wont,  and  also  Walter  the  physician  and  the 
souldiers,  but  our  Gentlemen  shew'd  smalle  appetyte  for  Salvage  cookerie.  Burlin- 
game, in  especiall,  shew'd  little  stomacke,  for  a  man  of  his  corpulencie,  and  who 
had  been  erst  so  lowd  of  his  bellie.  The  meale  done,  Hicktopeake  delivered  him 
selfe  of  a  smalle  speech,  again  bidding  us  well  come  to  his  towne,  and  offering  to 
replenishe  our  supplies  ere  we  left  him.  It  seem'd  to  me  then,  he  shew'd  a  curious 
eagernesse;  that  we  shd  tarrie  somewhile  with  him,  but  I  learn' d  not  the  cause  of  it 
at  once. 

On  my  enquiring  of  him,  the  extent  of  his  Kingdom?  Hicktopeake  reply'd 
onely  that  it  was.  of  considerable  breadth,  and  ran  awaye  up  the  countrie,  untill 
that  the  land  grewe  wider.  This  territorie  he  rul'd  conjoyntlie  with  his  Brother, 
one  Debedeavon,  called  by  the  Salvages,  the  Laughing  King  of  Accomack.  Debe- 
deavons  towne,  we  learn' d  was  farther  inland,  where  he  liv'd  with  his  Queene  in  a 
goodlie  house.  I  ask'd  then,  Where  was  Hicktopeakes  Queene?  meaning  no  more 
then  a  courtesie  by  my  question.  But  seeing  his  face  grewe  all  beclowded,  I  sought 
to  change  the  topick,  and  inquired,  Why  was  Debedeavon  cdl'd  the  Laughing 
King?  Whereupon,  albeit  I  knew  not  why,  Hicktopeakes  wrath  did  but  increase, 
so  that  he  was  scarce  able  to  contain  him  selfe.  I  sdwe  no  frute  in  farther  inquirie, 
and  $o  held  my  peace,  and  smoak'd  of  the  tobacco  that  was  then  pa$t  round. 

Hicktopeake  at  length  regayning  somewhat  of  his  controll,  he  did  command 
my  partie  to  be  given  lodging  for  the  night,  and  I  consented,  for  that  the  skye  was 
lowing,  and  bade  fowk  weather.  The  Gentlemen  and  my  selfe,  were  given  place 
in  Hicktopeakes  howse,  that  for  all  his  being  King,  was  but  a  single  roome  of  large 
dimension.  All  did  forthwith  set  them  selves  to  sleep,  save  Burlingame,  who  ever 
hownds  my  steps,  and  sleeps  not  save^when  I  sleep  also.  The  King  &  I  then 
smoak'd  many  pipes  beside  the  fyre,  in  dR  silence.  I  knew  well,  he  was  desirous  of 
speaking  farther  to  me,  but  that  after  the  manner  of  the  Salvage,  he  tarry' d  long 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  275  ] 

ere  commencing.  For  this  reason  I  yearn9 d  that  Burlingame  $M  retyre,  that  we 
might  speake  privilie,  but  this  he  wd  notf  maugre  my  hints  &  suggestions. 

At  last  Hicktopeake  spake,  and  talk'd  a  great  -while  of  trifling  things,  as  is  the 
Salvages  -wont.  Then  he  said,  in  substance  (for  I  am  here  Englishing  his  speech]  , 
Sir,  ye  doubtlesse  mark  me  a  batchelor,  for  that  no  wife  attendeth  me  in  my 
house,  or  at  my  board,  and  farther,  that  upon  thy  enquirie,  Where  was  my 
Queene?  I  mayde  thee  no  replie.  Yet  in  this  thou  art  mistaken.  Queene  have  I  in 
sooth,  and  of  surpassing  comelinesse,  that  I  have  onely  latelie  had  to  wife.  Yet 
wife  she  is  not,  for  is  it  not  the  first  requirement  of  a  wife,  that  she  seeke  not  far- 
ther than  her  wedded  spouse,  for  her  felicitie?  But  my  Queene,  she  findeth  me 
deficient,  though  I  mark  my  selfe  a  man  in  everie  wise,  and  she  goeth  about  un- 
satisfy'd.  And  Queene  she  is  not,  for  is  it  not  the  first  requirement  of  a  Queene, 
that  she  doe  naught  but  what  will  shewe  the,  greatnesse  of  her  King?  But  my 
Queene,  from  her  dissatisfaction  with  my  manlinesse,  doth  ever  seek  pleasure  in 
the  howses  of  other  men,  thereby  bringing  disgrace  upon  my  head;  and  stille  she 
goeth  unsatisfy'd,  by  her  own  pronouncement.  Now  this  is  an  evill  thing,  for  that 
not  onely  doth  this  woman  dishonour  my  selfe,  and  keep  me  for  ever  wearie,  but 
also  she  fatigueth  all  the  young  men  of  my  towne,  and  old  as  well.  She  is  even  as 
is  the  leech,  that  having  tasted  bloud,  can  never  drink  his  fille;  or  as  the  owle,  that 
devoureth  all  the  myjce  of  the  field,  and  goeth  ye't  hungrie  to  her  nest.  My 
Brother,  Debedeavon,  maketh.  much  of  this  matter,  and  laugheth  at  me  still 
(wherefor  they  call  him>  the  Laughing  King).  A  wife  he  hath,  that  he  keepeth 
well  satisfy' d,  and  hence  regardeth  him  selfe  my  better,  as  doe  his  people  mine. 
(Yet  is  his  wife  a  mowse,  and  lightlie  filtd,  for  that  oft  have  I  try'd  her  my  own 
selfe,  the  while  my  brother  fish'd.)  Therefore  1  aske  of  thee  of  the  faire  skinne 
this,  that  ye  assaye  to  please  the  Queene7  or  teach  her  to  be  pleas'd  even  with 
that  w°A  she  hath  alreadie,  to  the  end  that  peace  &  honour  may  reign  in  my 
towne,  and  my  Brother  mock  me  no  farther.  For  I  judge  of  thy  dresse,  thy  strange 
vessell,  and  thy  manlie  bearing,  thou  art  no  common  man,  but  a  doer  of  won- 
ders. 

Thus  spake  this  Hicktopeake,  and  I  heard  him  with  amazement,  for  that  most 
men,  that  cd  not  satisfye  there  wives,  were  loath  to  own  there  deficiencie  to  an- 
other man.  Yet  I  did  admire  his  truthfullnesse  &  candour,  &  his  generositie,  in 
inviting  my  selfe  to  attempt^  what  he  c*  not  doe.  With  as  much  of  grace  as  I  c* 
muster,  I  accepted  Hicktopeakes  offer,  whereupon  he  shew'd  me  a  doore  of  his 
howse,  the  woh  he  said,  open'd  upon  the  chamber  of  the  Queene.  Then  he  lay'd 
him  selfe  down  next  the  fyre  and  slept,  onely  fitfullie,  as  well  a  man  might,  that 
hath  granted  leave  to  another  to  go  in  unto  the  wife  of  his  bed. 

No  sooner  was  the  King  asleep,  then  I  straightway  made  for  the  doore,  and  w* 
have  fulfilVd  his  everie  wish,  had  not  L*  Burlingame  prevented  me,  and  catching 
hold  of  my  arme,  said,  That  he  did  protest  my  doing  this  thing.  I  enquifd,  Why 
did  he  protest?  seeing  that  I  knew  him  for  no  Catholick  Saint.  Whereto  he  re- 
ply* d,  Thai  be  that  as  may,  he  purposed  to  doe  the  thing  him  selfe,  for  that  I  had 
received  the  favours  of  Pocahontas,  and  had  deftowr'd  that  same  maide  by.  scurril- 
ous subterfuge,  whereas  he  had  enjoy' d  naught  of  her,  nor  had  layn  with  woman, 
since  that  he  set  sayle  from  London.  Moreover,  he  declar'd,  That  SM  I  refuse  him 


[  2j6  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

this  favour  (albeit  he  was  in  my  debt  for  his  scurvie  life),  he  meant  to  noyse  the 
truth  about  my  egg-plant  receipt  all  over  Jamestowne,  and  London  as  well. 

Hereupon  I  told  him,  That  he  cd  plough  the  Salvage  Queene  all  he  chose,  I 
car'd  not,  and  said  farther,  That  were  she  halfe  the  Messdina  good  Hicktopeake 
made  her  out,  it  wd  want  more  man  then  tenne  of  Burlingame,  to  pacifie  her.  This 
said,  I  bow'd  him  to  the  doore,  and  joyn'd  my  mooring  fellows  at  the  fyre.  Yet  I 
went  not  to  sleep  my  owne  selfe,  but  rested  awake  &  smoak'd  tobacco,  thinking, 
That  in  all  probabilitie  my  nights  adventures  were  not  done. 

At  length  Burlingame  return' d,  much  out  of  humour,  and  upon  my  enquiring 
of  him,  Was  the  Queen  so  lightlie  pleas' d?  he  but  broke  wind  at  me,  and  seeing 
the  King  stule  slept,  call'd  her  divers  kinds  of  whoore  &  peddle-bumme.  He  w*, 
he  said,  have  gone  into  her,  for  that  she  had  received  him  with  friendlinesse  enow, 
but  that  when  he  stoode  all  readie  to  doe  his  carnall  work,  she  had  demanded  of 
him,  Where  was  his  monie?  and  he  having  naught  to  offer,  save  a  parcell  of  to- 
bacco, she  straightway  turn1  d  upon  her  bellie,  and  wd  no  more  of  him.  Whereon 
he  had  left  her. 

I  did  laugh  greatlie  at  this  tale,  and  said  to  him,  that  he  wd  ever  fare  iU  in  con- 
quests of  women,  for  that  he  was  put  off  so  lightlie.  And  it  was  a  happie  thing,  for 
both  our  heads,  that  Powhatan  erst  had  set  my  selfe  to  pierce  his  daughters  nether 
armour,  and  not  him.  By  way  of  answer,  Burlingame  but  broke  wind  againe,  and 
said,  That  if  I  wish'd  to  make  good  my  boasts,  the  doore  was  yet  unlatch* d,  and 
the  Queene  yet  flatt  upon  the  grownd.  For  him,  he  w*  nothing  farther  of  the 
whoore,  be  she  Queene  or  scullerie  maide. 

I  hifd  me  then  without  losse  of  time  to  the  Queenes  apartment,  leaving 
Burlingame  at  the  fyre  to  stewe  in  his  owne  cowardice.  Directlie  my.  eyes  grewe 
us'd  to  the  dark,  I  made  out  the  Queene  her  selfe,  once  more  upon  her  back.  She 
was  a  passing  comelie  Salvage,  I C*  see,  with  gracious  features,  shapelie  limbs,  and 
a  smalle  flatt  bellie,  and  her  papps  &  other  appurtenancies  were  such,  as  to  whett 
any  mans  lust  Upon  her  directing  me,  in  Salvage  jargon,  to  doe  my  wille, 
I  prick d  up  like  a  doggs  eare,  at  smelle  of  meate.  I  presented  my  selfe  as  Ca*>*  J7*0 
Smith  of  Virginia,  deeming  it  a  beastlie  thing,  to  swive  a  woman  without  first  ex- 
changing cordialities.  But  to  this  she  pay'd  no  heed  a  all,  onely  shew'd  me,  by  cer- 
taine  movements,  she  mark'd  such  pleasantries  a  waste  of  time.  Therefore  I 
hasten' d  to  undoe  mytselfe,  and  had  clipp'd  her  on  the  instant,  but  that  she  stay'd 
my  ardour;  and  pointing  to  that  place,  the  wc7t  she  had  in  Salvage  fashion  pluck9 d 
bald  as  a  biskett  &  bedawb'd  with  puccoon  paynt,  she  demanded  first  some  pay- 
ment, saying,  That  she  was  not  wont  to  bestowe  her  charms  for  naught. 

This  troubled  me  not  a  whitt,  for  that  I  was  us'd  to  dealing  with  both  whoores 
&  Salvages.  I  fetch'd  up  my  breeches,  and  withdrewe  therefrom  a  fistfull  of 
bawbles,  that  ever  charme  the  Salvage  eye.  These  I  gave  her,  but  she  flung  them 
awaye,  and  demanded  something  more.  I  gave  her  then  a\  smalle  charme,  that  I 
had  got  from  a  dead  Moor,  the  woh  was  said  to  have  magick  powers,  but  this 
neither  she  deign' d  to  accept  After  that  I  offered  the  slutt  a  lewd  figure  done  in 
ivorie,  a  smalle  coyne  inscribed  in  filthie  Arabick,  and  the  pledge  of  twelve  yardes 
of  Scotch  cloth,  to  be  deliver' d  on  the  next  boat  from  London — all  to  no  avdle. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  277  ] 

She  w*  have  six  lengths  of  wompompeag,  she  sdd,  or  nine  of  roanoke,  for  her 
favours,  and  naught  besides,  for  that  her  other  lovers  were  wont  to  pay  that 
summe  for  her  bodie,  she  being  the  Queene.  I  made  replye,  That  I  had  no  Sal- 
vage monies  on  my  person,  nor  meanes  of  acquiring  any,  but  wd  she  grant  me  sat- 
isfaction of  my  lust,  I  wd  send  her  a  pound  Sterling  from  Jamestowne,  enough 
coyn  to  purchase  a  bakers  dozen  tarts  in  London.  But  the  Queene  w*  none  of  my 
pound  Sterling,  and  rolling  on  her  bellie,  let  goe  a  fart  w071  had  done  honour  to 
Elizabeth  her  selfe.  I  did  declare,  That  Cw*  j™  Smith  was  not  put  off  so  lightlief 
and  when  that  she  reply1 d  as  before,  I  vow'd  to  have  my  fille  of  her  regardlesse. 
There  is  a  saying  amongst  the  worldlie  French,  that  when  a  man  cannot  eate 
thrush,  he  must  perforce  make  doe  with  crowe.  I  tarryrd  no  longer,  but  straight- 
way work'd  upon  the  Queene  that  sinne,  for  w°h  the  Lord  rayn'd  fyre  upon  the 
Cities  of  the.Playne.  ... 

When  that  I  had  done,  I  drewe  away  and  waited  for  the  Queene  to  catt 
her  bodie-guards  to  fetch  me,  u^  I  suppos'd  she  wd  forthwith.  For  a  space  she  lay 
a-panting  on  the  grownd,  and  when  at  last  she  had  her  winde,  tooke  from  her 
necke  tenne  strings  of  wompompeag,  wch  she  presented  me.  She  then  declared, 
That  she  had  got  love  enow  that  night,  to  give  her  payne  till  the  new  moone.  So 
saying,  she  felle  into  a  swoone-like  sleep,  and  I  retired  to  the  other  roome,  to  chide 
Burlingame  for  his  want  of  fancie.  This  he  took  in  his  wonted  ill  humour,  for  that 
I  had  the  better  of  him  yet  againe.  .  .  „ 

I  did  sleep  late  into  the  daye,  and  when  I  woke,  found  Hicktopeake  in  his  royall 
chaire,  with  all  his  Lieutenants  round  about.  He  had  bade  them  be  silent,  the 
while  I  slept,  and  on  my  rowsing  up  came  forward,  and  embraced  me,  and  declared 
I  SM  be  second  in  rule  over  his  towne,  and  have  the  comeliest  Salvage  of  his  tribe 
to  wife,  for  that  I  had  restored  his  peoples  peace.  I  enquired,  How  was  that  so?  &nd 
he  made  answer,  That  the  Queene  had  come  to  him  that  dawne,  and  beggd  for^ 
givenesse  for  her  infidelitie,  and  swore  that  so  satisfy' d  was  she  of  me,  she  never 
w*  againe  goe  a-roving  from  the  Kings  bedstead.  Onely,  he  said,  he  fear'd  her  re- 
solve might  not  endure  for  long;  it  must  needs  have  been  by  meanes  of  some  un- 
common virilitie  I  had  pleased  her,  and  I  was  leaving  his  towne  anon. 

With  that  I  led  him  aside,  and  related  to  him  privilie  the  simple  trick  I  had 
employ' d,  assuring  him,  that  he  cd  doe  the  thing  as  well  as  1.  For  so  smalle  was  the 
puddle,  any  frogg  seem'd  greate  therein.  Hicktopeake  had  never  heard  of  such  a 
practice  (w*h  I  had  learnt  from  the  scurvie  Arabs) ,  and  he  listened  in  amazement. 
Naught  w*  then  suffice  but  he  must  put  his  learning  to  the  test,  and  so  he  hi'd 
him  selfe  apace  from  out  the  roome. 

While  that  he  was  gone  thus  a-wooing,  I  gather9 d  together  my  compcmie,  and 
told  them  to  make  readie  our  vessell,  for  I  design' d  to  sayle  that  selfe  same  morn- 
ing, to  take  up  the  course  of  our  explorations.  They  did  set  to  at  once,  all  save 
Burlingame,  that  grows' d  about  the  shoarline  kicking  pebbles,  and  we  were  neare 
readie  to  sayle,  when  Hicktopeake  came  out  from  his  howse.  He  embfac'd  me 
dgaine,  this  time  more  warmlie  then  before,  and  beggd  me  stay  in  his  towne  for 
ever,  as  his  Prince  &  successor.  So  had  he  woo'd  the  Queene,  he  said,  she  w*  be 
three  days  rysing  from  her  bed,  and  costive  the  week.  But  I  declined  his  offer, 
saying,  That  I  had  business  elsewhere  to  attend.  After  much  debate  he  did  re- 


[  278  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

signe  him  selfe,  and  gave  me  leave  to  goe,  presenting,  me  &  my  companie  with.dl 
manner  of  Salvage  gifts,  and  food  &  water  for  our  vesselL 

Thus  at  last  we  did  set  sayle  once  more,  and  headed  for  the  maine,  and  what- 
ever lay  before  us.  I  was  a  trifle  loath  to  goe,  and  wd  fain  have  tarry1 d  some  smdle 
space,  for  that  Hicktopeake  did  declare  to  me  his  intention,  of  journeying  to  the 
towne  of  Debedeavon  his  Brother,  and  there  so  ploughing  Debedeavons  Queene, 
after  the  manner  he  had  learnt,  as  to  confound  his  Brother  for  ever.  Whereupon 
he,  Hicktopeake,  s™  be  the  Laughing  King  of  Accomack.  W°*>  forsooth  were  worth 
the  witnessing.  But  the  favour  of  Kings  is  a  slipperie  boone,  lightlie  granted  &  as 
lightlie  forsworne,  and  I  deem'd  it  more  prudent  to  absent  my  selfe  betimes, 
while  that  I  was  yet  in  his  good  graces,  then  to  linger,  and  perchance  weare  out 
my  welcome  there  in  Accomack.  .  .  . 

Here  ended  the  narrative,  or  what  fragment  of  it  Meech  had  brought 
aboard.  Ebenezer  read  it  again,  and  a  third  time,  hoping  to  find  in  it  some- 
thing to  connect  Henry  Burlingame  with  his  luckless  namesake  in  the  story. 
But  there  was  every  indication  that  Captain  Smith's  antagonist,  who  Henry 
hoped  would  prove  to  be  his  ancestor,  was  not  only  childless  but  un- 
married, and  his  future  with  the  company  of  explorers  was  far  from  promis- 
ing. With  a  sigh  the  Laureate  assembled  the  pages  of  the  Journal  and  con- 
cealed it  under  his  sailcloth  bed,  where  no  one  was  likely  to  find  it.  Then 
he  extinguished  the  lantern  and  sat  for  some  while  in  the  dark.  The  naked 
sounds  of  rape,  floating  through  the  shallop's  foVsle,  conjured  pictures  clear 
enough  to  make  him  shiver.  Together  with  the  story  in  the  manuscript— 
which  was  as  much  a  revelation  to  him  as  it  had  been  to  Hicktopeake— 
they  forced  his  reverie  willy-nilly  into  a  single  channel,  and  before  long  he 
found  himself  physically  moved  by  desire.  He  could  not  in  honesty  assert 
that  his  pity  for  the  Cyprian  girls  was  unambiguous,  or  his  condemnation 
of  their  assault  wholehearted;  if  he  had  been  shocked  by  the  spectacle, 
he  had  also  been  excited  by  it,  and  so  fascinated  that  no  lesser  business 
than  that  of  the  Journal  could  have  summoned  him  away.  Indeed,  the 
sight  of  the  young  girl  trapped  in  the  rigging  like  a  fly  in  a  web,  and  of 
Boabdil  climbing  leisurely  up  to  envelop  her  like  a  great  black  spider,  had 
aroused  him  as  its  memory  aroused  him  now. 

It  was  abundantly  clear  to  him  that  the  value  of  his  virginity  was  not  a 
moral  value,  even  as  he  had  explained  to  Bertrand  one  day  on  the  Poseidon. 
But  the  mystic  ontological  value  he  had  ascribed  to  it  seemed  less  convincing 
now  than  it  had  seemed  then.  The  recollection  of  Joan  Toast's  visit  to  his 
room,,  for  example,  which  was  customarily  dominated  by  his  speech  at  her 
departure  or  the  hymn  to  virginity  composed  afterwards,  stopped  now  at 
the  memory  of  the  girl  herself,  sitting  pertly  on  his  bed,  and  would  go  no 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  279  ] 

farther.  She  had  leaned  forward  and  embraced  him  where  he  knelt  before 
her:  her  breasts  had  brushed  like  cool  silk  on  his  forehead;  his  cheek  had 
lain  against  the  cushion  of  her  stomach;  his  eyes  had  lingered  close  to  The 
Mystery! 

From  outside  came  another  cry,  a  hard,  high  protest  that  trailed  into 
lamentation.  There  was  an  ancient  ring  to  it,  an  antique  sorrow,  that  put 
the  poet  in  mind  of  Philomela,  of  Lucretia,  of  the  Sabine  virgins  and  the 
daughters  of  Troy,  of  the  entire  wailing  legion  of  the  raped.  He  went  to 
the  companionway,  and  climbing  it  looked  skyward  at  the  stars.  How 
trifling  was  the  present  scene  to  them,  who  had  watched  the  numberless 
wars  of  men,  the  sack  of  nations,  and  the  countless  lone  assaults  in  field 
and  alley!  Was  there  a  year  in  time  when  their  light  had  not  been  dimmed, 
somewhere  on  earth,  by  the  flames  of  burning  cities?  That  instant  when  he 
stepped  out  on  the  deck,  how  many  women  heard— in  England,  Spain,  and 
far  Cipango— the  footfall  of  the  rapist  on  the  stair,  or  in  the  path  behind? 
The  ranks  of  women  ravished,  hundreds  and  thousands  and  millions  strong, 
of  every  age  and  circumstance— the  centuries  rang  and  echoed  with  their 
cries;  the  dirt  of  the  planet  was  watered  with  their  tears! 

The  scene  aboard  the  Cyprian  was  considerably  less  violent  now,  though 
by  no  means  tranquil.  Around  the  masts  her  crew  were  still  tied  fast,  and 
watched  the  festivities  in  sullen  silence;  thus  far  none  had  been  harmed. 
The  pirates,  their  first  lust  spent,  had  broken  out  the  rum  and  were  fast 
succumbing  to  it.  Already  some  lay  senseless  in  the  scuppers;  others 
sprawled  with  their  prizes  on  the  decks  and  cabin  roofs,  taking  drinks  and 
liberties  by  turn,  but  no  longer  able  to  consummate  their  wooing;  still  others 
had  lost  interest  altogether  in  the  women— they  danced,  sang  bawdy  songs, 
or  played  ombre  under  lanterns  in  the  balmy  air,  almost  as  on  any  other 
evening  at  sea.  From  the  cabins  came  the  sound  of  more  carousing,  but  not 
of  violence:  two  girls,  it  seemed,  were  being  obliged  to  perform  some  trick 
against  their  will,  and  Ebenezer  heard  several  women  join  in  the  general 
laughter  and  encouragement. 

"So  lightly  they  accept  their  fate!"  He  thought  again  of  the  Trojan 
widows,  advised  by  Hecuba  to  resign  themselves  without  protests  to  being 
concubines  and  slaves. 

The  least  enviable  lot,  so  far  as  he  could  see,  was  that  of  seven  ladies 
trussed  hip  to  hip  over  the  Cyprian's  starboard  rail  in  classic  pirate  fashion, 
so  that  their  heads  and  upper  bodies  hung  over  the  somewhat  lower  shallop; 
yet  even  these,  despite  the  indignity  and  clear  discomfort  of  their  position, 
were  not  entirely  overwhelmed  with  misery.  One,  it  is  true,  appeared  to 


[280]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

be  weeping,  though  she  was  not  being  molested  at  the  moment,  and 
two  others  stared  expressionless  at  their  arms,  which  were  lashed  at  the 
wrist  to  the  bottom  of  the  balusters;  but  the  others  were  actually  gos- 
siping with  Carl  the  sailmaker,  who  smoked  his  pipe  on  the  shallop's  deck 
before  them!  At  sight  of  Ebenezer,  who  came  up  beside  him,  they  were 
not  in  the  least  abashed. 

"Oh  dear,"  said  one,  feigning  alarm,  "here  comes  another!" 

"Ah,  now,  he  seems  a  likely  lad,"  said  her  neighbor,  who  was  older.  "Ye'd 
not  do  aught  unchivalrous,,  would  ye,  son?" 

Even  as  they  laughed,  a  drunken  pirate  reeled  up  behind  them. 

"Ouch!"  cried  the  one  to  whom  he  made  his  presence  known.  "Tell  him, 
Carl,  'tis  not  my  turn!  Hi!  The  wretch  takes  me  for  a  roast  of  mutton!  Tell 
him,  Carl!" 

The  sailmaker,  by  reason  of  his  age,  had  some  authority  among  his  ship- 
mates. "Have  at  some  other,  matey,"  he  advised.  The  pirate  obligingly 
moved  to  the  tearful  youngster  on  the  end,  who  at  his  first  touch  gave  a  cry 
that  pierced  Ebenezer  to  the  heart. 

"Nay,  ye  blackguard*  don't  dare  jilt  me!"  cried  the  woman  first  molested. 
"Come  hither  to  one  that  knows  what's  what!" 

"Aye,  leave  the  child  in  peace,"  another  scolded.  "I'll  show  ye  how  'tis 
done  in  Leicestershire!"  Aside  to  her  companions  she  added,  "Pray  God 
'tis  not  the  Moor!" 

"Ye  asked  fort,"  said  the  pirate,  and  returned  to  his  original  choice. 

"Marry,  there's  a  good  fellow!"  she  cried,  pretending  pleasure.  "'Sheart, 
what  a  stone-horse,  girls!"  To  her  neighbor  she  said  in  a  stage  whisper, "  Tis 
not  the  Moor  by  half,  but  Grantham  gruel:  nine  grits  and  a  gallon  o'  water. 
Aiel  Gramercy,  sir!  Gramercyl" 

The  other  three  were  highly  entertained. 

"Your  friend  is  yonder  in  the  cabin,"  Carl  said  to  Ebenezer.  "Hop  to't 
if  ye've  a  mind  for  the  ladies,  for  we  shan't  tarry  here  much  longer." 

"Indeed?"  Ebenezer  shifted  uncomfortably;  the  women  were  regarding 
him  with  interest.  "Perhaps  I'd  better  see  what  mischief  Bertrand  is  about." 

"Ah,  'sblood,  he  doth  not  care  for  us,"  one  of  the  women  said.  "He  likes 
his  friend  better."  The  rest  took  up  the  tease,  even  the  one  being  wooed, 
and  Ebenezer  beat  a  hasty  retreat. 

"I  cannot  fathom  it,"  he  said  to  himself. 

Though  he  had  dismissed  entirely  the  notion  of  stowing  away  aboard 
the  Cyprian  and  had  little  or  no  interest  in  his  valet's  present  activities,  he 
borrowed  courage  enough  from  those  two  motives  to  board  the  brigantine, 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  281  ] 

having  first  walked  aft  to  escape  the  women's  remarks.  He  could  not  deny, 
however,  his  intention  to  stroll  bgck  in  their  direction  from  the  vantage 
point  of  the  Cyprian's  deck,  at  least  out  of  curiosity.  He  climbed  to  the 
rail  and  grasped  the  brigantine's  mizzen  shrouds  to  pull  himself  over. 
When  by  chance  he  happened  to  look  aloft,  the  moonlight  showed  him  a 
surprising  sight:  high  in  the  mizzen-rigging  the  Moor's  first  conquest  still 
hung,  forgotten  by  all;  her  arms  and  legs  stuck  through  as  though  in  stocks. 
One  could  not  judge  her  condition  from  below:  perhaps  she  maintained 
her  perch  out  of  fear,  hoping  to  escape  further  assault;  or  it  could  be  she 
was  a-swoon— her  position  would  keep  her  from  falling.  Neither  was  it  im- 
possible that  she  was  dead,  from  the  bite  of  her  great  black  spider.  Assuring 
himself  that  only  his  curiosity  wanted  satisfying,  but  in  a  high  state  of 
excitement  nonetheless,  Ebenezer  swung  his  feet  not  to  the  deck  of  the 
Cyprian  but  onto  the  first  of  the  mizzen  ratlines,  and  methodically,  in  the 
manner  of  Boabdil,  climbed  skyward  to  the  dangling  girl.  .  .  . 

His  ascent  caused  the  shrouds  to  tremble;  the  girl  stirred,  peered  down- 
wards, and  buried  her  face  with  a  moan.  The  poet,  positively  dizzied  with 
desire,  made  crooning  noises  in  her  direction. 

"I  shall  have  at  thee,  lass!  I  shall  have  at  thee!" 

When  he  had  got  but  halfway  up,  however,  Captain  Pound  stepped  out 
from  the  cabin  below,  and  the  Moor  ordered  all  hands  back  to  the  shallop. 
The  men  responded  with  loud  protests  but  nevertheless  obeyed,  taking 
desperate  final  liberties  as  they  went.  Ebenezer  doubled  his  rate  of  climb. 

"I  shall  have  at  thee!" 

But  Boabdil's  voice  came  up  from  below.  "You  in  the  mizzen-rig!  Down 
with  ye,  now!  Snap  to't!" 

The  girl  was  literally  within  reach,  but  to  no  avail.  "Thou'rt  a  lucky 
wench!"  he  called  up  boldly. 

The  girl  looked  down  at  him.  In  the  moonlight,  from  the  present  dis- 
tance, she  bore  some  slight  resemblance  to  Joan  Toast,  the  recollection  of 
whom  had  fired  his  original  desire.  There  was  a  look  of  horror  on  her  face. 

Weak  with  excitement,  Ebenezer  called  out  to  her  again:  "A  minute 
more  and  I  had  split  thee!" 

She  hid  her  face,  and  he  climbed  down.  A  few  minutes  later  the  pirates 
had  cast  off  the  grapples  and  were  doing  their  best  to  make  sail.  Looking 
back  over  the  widening  stretch  of  ocean,  Ebenezer  saw  the  women  of  the 
Cyprian  untie  their  colleagues  at  the  rail  and  set  free  the  crew.  Up  in  the 
mizzen-rigging  he  could  still  discern  the  white  figure  of  the  girl,  his  desire 


[  282  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

for  whom,  unsatisfied,  began  already  to  discommode  him.  The  relief  he 
felt  at  the  accidental  rescue  of  his  essence  was,  though  genuine,  not  nearly 
so  profound  a  sensation  as  had  been  his  strange  possession  in  the  rigging, 
which  he  could  not  begin  to  understand.  Surely,,  he  insisted,  there  was 
more  to  it  than  simple  concupiscience:  if  not,  why  did  the  thought 
of  the  Moor's  attack,  for  example,  make  him  nearly  ill  with  jealousy? 
Why  had  he  chosen  the  girl  in  the  ratlines  instead  of  those  along  the  rail? 
Why  had  her  resemblance  to  Joan  Toast  (which  for  that  matter  he 
may  only  have  fancied)  inflamed  rather  than  cooled  his  ardor?  His  whole 
behavior  in  the  matter  was  incomprehensible  to  him. 

He  turned  away  and  made  for  his  cell  in  the  rope-locker,  both  to  assure 
himself  of  the  safety  of  his  precious  manuscript  and  in  some  manner  to 
alleviate,  if  he  could,  his  growing  pain.  Even  as  he  lowered  himself  down 
the  foVsle  companionway  a  sharp,  shrill  female  cry  rang  out  through  the 
darkness  from  the  brigantine's  direction,  followed  by  another  and  a  third. 

"Their  turn,  now,"  said  someone  on  the  shallop,  and  a  number  of  the 
pirates  chuckled.  The  blood  rushed  from  Ebenezer's  brain;  he  swayed  on 
the  ladderway  and  found  it  necessary  to  pause  a  moment,  his  forehead 
pressed  against  an  upper  rung. 

"She's  but  a  whore;  a  simple  whore/'  he  said  to  himself,  and  was  obliged 
to  repeat  the  words  several  times  before  he  could  proceed  with  his  descent. 

Whether  because  he  thought  he  had  put  it  away  for  safekeeping  before 
boarding  the  Cyprian  or  because  he  was  too  drunk  on  returning  to  notice 
its  absence,  Captain  Pound  did  not  disclose  the  loss  of  the  Journal  fragment 
until  after  noon  of  the  following  day,  by  which  time  Ebenezer  had  found 
an  even  better  hiding-place  for  it.  Thinking  it  imprudent  to  trust  his  valet 
too  far,  he  had  waited  until  Bertrand  went  on  deck  that  morning  and 
had  then  transferred  his  prize  from  under  his  pallet  to  a  fold  in  the  canvas 
of  a  brand  new  sail  which  lay  at  the  bottom  of  a  pile  of  others  on  a  large 
shelf  near  at  hand.  Thus  when  in  the  afternoon  he  and  Bertrand  stripped 
to  the  skin  with  the  rest  of  the  crew  and  stood  by  while  Boabdil  and  the 
Captain  combed  the  ship,  he  was  not  alarmed  to  see  them  throw  aside  the 
rag-beds  in  his  cell:  for  them  to  unfold  and  refold  every  spare  sail  on  the 
shelf  would  have  been  unthinkable.  After  a  two-hour  search  failed  to  dis- 
cover the  manuscript,  Captain  Pound  concluded  that  someone  from  the 
Cyprian  had  sneaked  aboard  to  steal  it.  All  that  day  and  the  next  the  pirates 
raced  to  find  the  brigantine  again,  until  the  sight  of  Cape  Henlopen  and 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [283] 

Delaware  Bay  put  an  end  to  the  chase  and  forced  them  back  to  the  safety 
of  the  open  sea. 

His  loss  made  the  Captain  daily  more  sour  and  irascible.  His  suspicion 
naturally  fell  heaviest  on  Ebenezer  and  Bertrand:  though  he  had  no  reason 
to  believe  that  either  had  prior  knowledge  of  the  Journal's  presence  on  the 
ship  and  no  evidence  that  either  had  stolen  it— both  had  been  seen  aboard 
the  Cyprian,  for  example— he  nevertheless  confined  them  to  their  cell  again, 
out  of  ill  humor.  At  the  same  time  he  had  the  Moor  lay  ten  stripes  on  the 
sailmaker's  aged  back  as  punishment  for  failing  to  see  the  thief:  the  flogging 
could  be  heard  in  the  rope-locker,  and  Ebenezer  had  to  remind  himself, 
uncomfortably,  that  the  manuscript  was  exceedingly  valuable  to  the  cause 
of  order  and  justice  in  Maryland.  To  Bertrand,  who  had  nearly  swooned 
during  the  search  of  their  quarters,  he  declared  that  he  had  thrown  the 
Journal  into  the  sea  for  fear  of  discovery,  and  that  old  Carl  was  after  all  a 
pirate  whom  any  judge  ashore  would  doubtless  hang. 

"Nonetheless,"  he  added  resolutely,  "should  I  hear  they  mean  to  kill  or 
torture  anyone  for't,  even  that  loathesome  beast  Boabdil,  I  shall  confess." 
Whether  he  would  in  fact,,  he  did  not  care  to  wonder;  he  made  the  vow 
primarily  for  Bertrand's  sake,  to  forestall  another  defection. 

"Small  difference  whether  ye  do  or  no,"  the  valet  answered,  "Our  time's 
nigh  up  in  either  case."  He  was,  indeed,  perilously  disheartened;  from  the 
first  he  had  been  skeptical  of  Ebenezer's  plan  to  escape,  and  even  that  long 
chance  was  precluded  by  their  present  confinement.  In  vain  did  Ebenezer 
point  out  that  it  was  Bertrand  who,  by  his  conduct  aboard  the  Cyprian, 
had  spoiled  their  best  opportunity  to  escape:  such  truths  are  never  con- 
solations. 

Their  prospects  darkened  as  the  day  of  the  shallop's  scheduled  rendez- 
vous approached.  They  heard  the  crew  in  the  fo'c'sle  complain  of  the 
Captain's  mounting  severity:  three  had  been  put  on  short  rations  for  no 
greater  crime  than  that  Pound  had  overheard  them  comparing  notes  on 
the  Cyprian  women;  a  fourth,  who  as  spokesman  for  the  group  had  in- 
quired how  soon  they  would  put  into  some  port,  had  been  threatened  with 
keelhauling.  Daily  the  two  prisoners  feared  that  he  would  take  it  into  his 
head  to  put  them  to  some  form  of  torture.  The  one  bright  happenstance  of 
the  entire  period,  both  for  the  crew  and  for  Ebenezer,  was  the  news  that 
the  Moor,  whom  they  had  come  to  resent  for  executing  the  Captain's  orders, 
had  been  blessed  by  one  of  his  victims  on  the  brigantine  with  a  social 
disease. 

"Whether  'tis  French  pox  or  some  other,  I  don't  know,"  said  the  man 


[284]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

who  had  the  news,  "but  he  is  sore  as  a  boil  oft  and  cannot  walk  to  save  him/' 
Ebenezer  readily  assumed  that  it  was  the  girl  in  the  mizzen-rigging  who 
had  been  infected,  for  though  Boabdil  had  assuredly  not  confined  his  exer- 
cise to  her,  none  of  the  other  pirates  showed  signs  of  the  malady.  The 
disclosure  gave  him  a  complexly  qualified  pleasure:  in  the  first  place  he 
was  glad  to  see  the  Moor  thus  repaid  for  the  rape,  yet  he  quite  understood 
the  oddity  of  this  emotion  in  the  light  of  his  own  intentions.  Second,  the  re- 
lief he  felt  at  so  narrowly  escaping  contagion  himself,  like  the  relief  at 
having  his  chastity  preserved  for  him,  failed  to  temper  his  disappointment  as 
he  thought  it  should.  And  third,  the  presence  of  infection  suggested  that  the 
girl  had  not  been  virginal,  and  this  likelihood  occasioned  in  him  the  follow- 
ing additional  and  not  altogether  harmonious  feelings:  chagrin  at  having 
somewhat  less  cause  to  loathe  the  Moor  and  relish  his  affliction;  disap- 
pointment at  what  he  felt  to  be  a  depreciation  of  his  own  near-conquest; 
alarm  at  the  implication  of  this  disappointment,,  which  seemed  to  be  that 
his  motives  for  assaulting  the  girl  were  more  cruel  than  even  the  Moor's, 
who  would  not  have  assumed  her  to  be  virginal  in  the  first  place;  awe  at 
the  double  perversity  that  though  his  lust  had  been  engendered  at  least 
partially  by  pity  for  what  he  took  to  be  a  deflowered  maiden,  yet  he  felt  in 
his  heart  that  the  pity  was  nonetheless  authentic  and  would  have  been 
heightened,  not  diminished,  during  his  own  attack  on  her,  whereas  the 
revelation  that  she  had  not  lost  her  maidenhead  to  Boabdil  materially 
diminished  it;  and  finally,  a  sort  of  overarching  joy  commingled  with  relief 
at  a  suspicion  that  seemed  more  probable  every  time  he  reviewed  it— the 
suspicion  that  his  otherwise  not  easily  accountable  possession  by  desire, 
contingent  as  it  had  been  on  the  assumption  of  her  late  deflowering 
and  his  consequent  pity,  was  by  the  very  perverseness  of  that  contingency 
rendered  almost  innocent,  an  affair  as  it  were  between  virgins.  This  mystic 
yearning  of  the  pure  to  join  his  ravished  sister  in  impurity:  was  it  not,  in 
fact,  self-ravishment,  and  hence  a  variety  of  love? 
'Very  likely/'  he  concluded,  and  chewed  his  index  fingernail  for  joy. 
How  Captain  Pound  explained  his  dereliction,  the  Laureate  never 
learned.  The  six  weeks  ran  their  course;  well  after  dark  on  the  appointed 
day  the  prisoners  heard  another  ship  saluted  by  the  pirates,  and  the  sound 
of  visitors  brought  aboard  from  a  longboat.  Whatever  the  nature  of  the 
parley,  it  was  brief:  after  half  an  hour  the  guests  departed.  All  hands  were 
ordered  aloft,  and  into  the  rope-locker  came  the  sounds  of  the  pirates  mak- 
ing sail  in  the  gentle  breeze.  As  soon  as  the  shallop  gained  steerage-way  the 
acting  first  mate— none  other  than  the  boatswain  impressed  from  the 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  285  ] 

Poseidon,  who  had  so  rapidly  and  thoroughly  adjusted  to  his  new  circum- 
stances that  Pound  appointed  him  to  replace  the  ailing  Moor— climbed 
down  into  the  fo'c'sle,  unlocked  the  door  of  the  brig,  and  ordered  the 
prisoners  on  deck. 

"Aie!"  cried  Bertrand.  "'Tis  the  end!" 

"What  doth  this  mean?"  the  Laureate  demanded. 

"'Tis  the  end!  Tis  the  end!" 

"  Tis  the  end  o'  thy  visit,"  the  boatswain  grumbled.  "I'll  say  that  much/' 

"Thank  Heav'n!"  Ebenezer  cried.  "Is't  not  as  I  said,  Bertrand?" 

"Up  with  ye,  now." 

"One  moment,"  the  poet  insisted.  "I  beg  you  for  a  moment  alone,  sir, 
ere  I  go  with  you.  I  must  give  thanks  to  my  Savior."  And  without  waiting 
for  reply  he  fell  to  his  knees  in  an  attitude  of  prayer. 

"Ah,  well,  then "  The  boatswain  shifted  uncertainly,  but  finally 

stepped  outside  the  cell.  "Only  a  moment,  though;  the  Captain's  in  foul 
spirits." 

As  soon  as  he  was  alone  Ebenezer  snatched  the  Journal  manuscript  from 
its  hiding-place  nearby  and  thrust  it  into  his  shirt.  Then  he  joined  Bertrand 
and  the  boatswain. 

"I  am  ready,  friend,  and  to  this  cell  bid  Adieu  right  gladly.  Is't  a  boat 
hath  come  for  us,  or  are  we  so  near  shore?  'Sblood,  how  this  lifts  my  heart!" 

The  boatswain  merely  grunted  and  preceded  them  up  the  companionway 
to  the  deck,  where  they  found  a  mild  and  moonless  mid-September  night. 
The  shallop  rode  quietly  under  a  brilliant  canopy  of  stars.  All  hands  were 
congregated  amidships,  several  holding  lanterns,  and  greeted  their  ap- 
proach with  a  general  murmur.  Ebenezer  thought  it  only  fit  that  he  bid 
them  farewell  with  a  bit  of  verse,  since  all  in  all  they  had,  save  for  the  past 
six  weeks,  treated  him  quite  unobjectionably:  but  there  was  not  time  to 
compose,  and  all  he  had  in  stock,  so  to  speak  (his  notebook  having  -been 
left  behind,  to  his  great  sorrow,  on  the  Poseidon)  was  a  little  poem  of 
welcome  to  Maryland  that  he  had  hatched  at  sea  and  committed  to 
memory— unhappily  not  appropriate  to  the  occasion.  He  resolved  therefore 
to  content  himself  with  a  few  simple  remarks,  no  less  well  turned  for  their 
brevity,  the  substance  of  which  would  be  that  while  he  could  not  approve 
of  their  way  of  life,  he  was  nonetheless  appreciative  of  their  civil  regard  for 
himself  and  his  man.  Moreover,  he  would  conclude,  what  a  man  cannot 
condone  he  may  yet  forgive:  Many  a  deed  that  the  head  reviles  finds 
absolution  in  the  heart;  and  while  he  could  not  but  insist,,  should  they  ever 
be  apprehended  at  their  business,  that  their  verdict  be  just,  he  could  pray 


[286]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

nonetheless,  and  would  with  his  whole  heart,  that  their  punishment  be 
merciful. 

But  it  was  not  his  fortune  to  deliver  himself  of  these  observations,  for 
immediately  upon  reaching  the  gathering  he  and  Bertrand  were  set  upon 
by  the  nearest  pirates  and  held  fast  by  the  arms.  The  group  separated  into 
a  double  column  leading  to  the  larboard  rail,  from  the  gangway  of  which, 
illuminated  by  the  flickering  lanterns,  the  prisoners  saw  a  plank  run  out 
some  six  feet  over  the  sea. 

"Nay!"  Ebenezer's  flesh  drew  up  in  goose  bumps.  "Dear  God  in 
Heav'n!" 

Captain  Pound  was  not  in  sight,  but  somewhere  aft  his  voice  said  "On 
with't."  The  grim-faced  pirates  drew  their  cutlasses  and  held  them  ready; 
Ebenezer  and  Bertrand,  at  the  inboard  end  of  the  gauntlet,  were  faced 
toward  the  plank,  released,  and  at  the  same  moment  pricked  from  behind 
with  swords  or  knives  to  get  them  moving. 

"From  the  first,  gentlemen,  I  have  been  uncertain  which  of  you  is 
Ebenezer  Cooke,"  said  Captain  Pound.  "I  know  now  that  the  twain  of  you 
are  impostors.  The  real  Ebenezer  Cooke  is  in  St.  Mary's  City,  and  hath 
been  these  several  weeks." 

"Nay!"  cried  the  poet,  and  Bertrand  howled.  But  the  ranks  of  steel  blades 
closed  behind  them,  and  they  were  shortly  teetering  on  the  plank.  Below 
them  the  black  sea  raced  and  rustled  down  the  freeboard;  Ebenezer  saw  it 
sparkle  in  tie  flare  of  the  lanterns  and  fell  to  his  knees,  the  better  to  clutch 
at  the  plank.  No  time  for  a  parting  song  like  that  of  Arion,  whose  music  had 
summoned  dolphins  to  his  rescue.  In  two  seconds  Bertrand,  farther  out- 
board, lost  his  balance  and  fell  with  a  screech  into  the  water. 

"Jump!"  cried  several  pirates. 

"Shoot  him!"  others  urged. 

'TGodI"  wailed  Ebenezer,  and  allowed  himself  to  tumble  from  the  plank. 


16:    THE  LAUREATE  AND  BERTRAND,  LEFT  TO  DROWN, 
ASSUME  THEIR  NICHES  IN  THE  HEAVENLY  PANTHEON 


FOR  BETTER  OR  WORSE,  THE  LAUREATE  FOUND  THE  WATER  WARM;  THE 

initial  shock  of  immersion  was  gone  by  the  time  he  scrabbled  to  the  surface, 
and  when  he  opened  his  eyes  he  saw  the  lights  of  the  shallop's  stern,,  already 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [287] 

some  yards  distant,  slipping  steadily  away.  But  despite  the  moderate 
temperature  of  the  water  his  heart  froze.  He  could  scarcely  comprehend 
his  position:  uppermost  in  his  mind  was  not  the  imminence  of  death  at  all, 
but  that  last  declaration  of  Captain  Pound's,  that  the  real  Ebenezer  Cooke 
was  in  St.  Mary's  City.  Another  impostor!  What  marvelous  plot,  then,  was 
afoot?  There  was  of  course  the  possibility  that  Burlinganie,  so  clever  at 
disguises,  had  arrived  safely  and  found  it  useful  to  play  the  poet,  the  further 
to  confound  Coode.  But  if  he  had  learned  of  Ebenezer's  capture  from 
passengers  on  the  Poseidon,  as  one  would  suppose,  surely  he  understood 
that  assuming  his  identity  would  jeopardize  his  friend's  life;  and  if  instead 
he  believed  his  ward  and  prot£g6  dead,  it  was  hard  to  imagine  him  having 
the  heart  for  imposture.  No,  more  likely  it  was  Coode  himself  who  was 
responsible.  And  to  what  evil  purpose  would  his  name  be  turned?  Ebenezer 
shuddered  to  think.  He  kicked  off  his  shoes,  the  better  to  stay  afloat;  the 
precious  manuscript  too  he  reluctantly  cast  away,  and  began  treading  water 
as  gently  as  possible  so  as  to  conserve  his  strength. 

But  for  what?  The  hopelessness  of  his  circumstances  began  to  make  itself 
clear.  Already  the  shallop's  lights  were  small  in  the  distance,  obscured  by 
every  wave;  soon  they  would  be  gone  entirely,  and  there  were  no  other 
lights.  For  all  he  knew  he  was  in  mid-Atlantic;  certainly  he  was  scores  of 
miles  from  land,  and  the  odds  against  another  ship's  passing  even  within 
sight  by  daylight  were  so  great  as  to  be  unthinkable.  Moreover,  the  night 
was  young:  there  could  be  no  fewer  than  eight  hours  before  dawn,  and 
though  the  seas  were  not  rough,  he  could  scarcely  hope  to  survive  that 
long. 

"I'faith,  I  am  going  to  die!"  he  exclaimed  to  himself.  "There  is  no  other 
possibility!" 

This  was  a  thing  he  had  often  pondered.  Always,  in  fact— ever  since  his 
boyhood  days  in  St.  Giles,  when  he  and  Anna  played  at  saints  and  Caesars 
or  Henry  read  them  stories  of  the  past— he  had  been  fascinated  by  the  aspect 
of  death.  How  must  the  cutpurse  feel,  or  the  murderer,  when  he  mounts  the 
stairway  to  the  gibbet?  The  falling  climber,  when  he  sees  the  rock  that 
will  dash  out  brains  and  bowels?  In  the  night,  between  their  bedchambers, 
he  and  his  sister  had  examined  eveiy  form  of  death  they  knew  of  and 
compared  their  particular  pains  and  horrors.  They  had  even  experimented 
with  death:  once  they  pressed  the  point  of  a  letter  knife  into  their  breasts  as 
hard  as  they  dared,  but  neither  had  had  the  courage  to  draw  blood;  another 
time  each  had  tried  being  throttled  by  the  other,  to  see  who  could  go  the 
farthest  without  crying  out,  But  the  best  game  of  all  was  to  see  who  could 


[  288  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

hold  his  breath  longer;  to  see,  specifically,  whether  either  was  brave  enough 
to  hold  it  to  the  point  of  unconsciousness.  Neither  had  ever  reached  that 
goal,  but  competition  carried  their  efforts  to  surprising  lengths:  they  would 
grow  mottled,  their  eyes  would  bulge,  their  jaws  clench,  and  finally  would 
come  the  desperate  explosion  of  breath  that  left  them  weak.  There  was  a 
terrible  excitement  about  this  game;  no  other  came  so  close  to  the  feel  of 
death,  especially  if  in  the  last  frantic  moments  one  imagined  himself  buried 
alive,  drowning,  or  otherwise  unable  to  respire  at  will.  That  speculation 
made  one  wild;  the  breath  roared  out.  It  was  a  sport  too  moving,  too  up- 
setting, to  play  often. 

It  is  not  surprising,  therefore,  that  however  unparalleled  in  his  experience, 
Ebenezer's  present  straits  were  by  no  means  novel  to  his  imagination. 
Death  by  drowning  was  a  consideration  intimately  bound  up  with  the 
breath-holding  game,  one  they  had  several  times  explored.  Even  the  details 
of  stepping  from  the  plank  at  night,  clawing  from  the  depths  for  air,  and 
watching  the  stern  lights  slip  away  they  had  considered,  and  Ebenezer  al- 
most knew  ahead  of  time  how  tie  end  would  feel:  water  catching  the 
throat  and  stinging  the  nose,  the  convulsive  coughing  to  expel  it,  and  the 
inevitable  reinspiration  of  air  where  no  air  was,,  the  suck  of  water  into 
the  lungs;  then  vertigo,  the  monstrous  pressure  in  head  and  chest,  and 
worst  of  all  the  frenzy,  the  anxiety  of  the  body  not  to  die,  that  total 
mindless  lust  for  air  which  must  in  the  last  seconds  rend  body  and  soul 
unspeakably.  When  he  and  Anna  chose  their  deaths,  drowning— along  with 
burning,  slow  crushing,  and  similar  protracted  agonies— was  disqualified  at 
once,  and  the  news  that  anyone  had  actually  suffered  such  an  end  would 
thrill  them  to  the  point  of  dizziness.  But  in  his  heart  the  fact  of  death  and 
all  these  senuous  anticipations  were  to  Ebenezer  like  the  facts  of  life  and  the 
facts  of  history  and  geography,  which,  owing  to  his  education  and  natural 
proclivities,  he  looked  at  always  from  the  storyteller's  point  of  view:  notion- 
ally  he  admitted  its  finality;  vicariously  he  sported  with  its  horror;  but  never, 
never  could  he  redly  embrace  either.  That  lives  are  stories,  he  assumed; 
that  stories  end,  he  allowed— how  else  could  one  begin  another?  But  that 

the  storyteller  himself  must  live  a  particular  tale  and  die Unthinkable! 

Unthinkable! 

Even  now,  when  he  saw  not  the  slightest  grounds  for  hope  and  knew 
that  the  dread  two  minutes  must  be  on  him  soon,  his  despair  was  as  notional, 
his  horror  as  vicarious,  as  if  he  were  in  his  chamber  in  St.  Giles  playing  the 
dying-game,  or  acting  out  a  story  in  the  summ^rhouse.  Bertiand,  he  as- 
sumed with  some  envy,  had  strangled  on  his  water  and  was  done  with  it; 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  289  ] 

there  was  no  reason  why  he  himself  should  not  get  it  over  with  at  once. 
But  it  was  not  simply  fear  that  kept  him  paddling;  it  was  also  the  same 
constitutional  deficiency  that  had  made  him  unable  to  draw  his  own  blood, 
will  himself  unconscious,  or  acknowledge  in  his  heart  that  there  really  had 
been  a  Roman  Empire.  The  shallop  was  gone.  Nothing  was  to  be  seen 
except  the  stars,  or  heard  except  the  chuckle  of  water  around  his  neck,  yet 
his  spirit  was  almost  calm. 

Presently  he  heard  a  thrashing  in  the  sea  nearby;  his  heart  pounded. "  Tis 
a  shark!"  he  thought,  and  envied  Bertrand  more  than  ever.  Here  was  some- 
thing that  had  not  occurred  to  him!  Why  had  he  not  drowned  himself  at 
once?  The  thing  splashed  nearer;  another  wave  and  they  were  in  the  same 
trough.  Even  as  Ebenezer  struck  out  in  the  opposite  direction,  his  left  leg 
brushed  against  the  monster. 

"Aief  he  shrieked,  and  "Nay!"  cried  the  other,  equally  alarmed. 

"Dear  God!"  said  Ebenezer,  paddling  back.  "Is't  you,  Bertrand?" 

"Master  Eben!  Praise  be,  I  thought  'twas  a  sea-serpent!  Thou'rt  not 
drowned?" 

They  embraced  each  other  and  came  up  sputtering. 

"Get  on  with't,  or  we  shall  be  yet!"  the  poet  said,  as  happy  as  though  his 
valet  had  brought  a  boat.  Bertrand  observed  that  it  was  but  a  matter  of  time 
after  all,  and  Ebenezer  replied  with  feeling  that  death  was  not  so  terrible 
in  company  as  alone. 

"What  say  you/'  he  proposed,  in  the  same  spirit  wherewith  he  had  used 
to  propose  the  breath-game  to  Anna:  "shall  we  have  done  with't  now,  to- 
gether?" 

"In  any  case  'twill  not  be  many  minutes,"  Bertrand  said.  "My  muscles 
fail  me  already." 

"Look  yonder,  how  the  stars  are  darkened  out."  Ebenezer  pointed  to  a 
lightless  stretch  on  the  western  horizon.  "At  least  we'll  not  need  to  weather 
that  storm." 

"Not  I,  'tis  certain."  The  valet's  breath  came  hard  from  the  exertion  of 
paddling.  "Another  minute  and  I'm  done." 

"Howe'er  you've  injured  me  before,  friend,  I  forgive  you.  We'll  go  to- 
gether." 

"Ere  the  moment  comes,"  Bertrand  panted,  "I've  a  thing  to  say,  sir " 

"Not  sir/"  cried  the  poet.  "Think  you  the  sea  cares  who's  master  and 
man?" 

"—'tis  about  my  gambling  on  the  Poseidon"  Bertrand  continued. 


[  2QO  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Long  since  forgiven!  You  lost  my  money:  I  pray  you  had  good  use  oft! 
What  need  have  I  of  money  now?" 

"There's  more,  sir.  You  recall  the  Parson  Tubman  offered  odds " 

"Forgiven!  What  more's  to  lose,  when  you  had  plucked  me  clean?" 

But  Bertrand  would  not  be  consoled.  "What  a  wretch  I  felt,  sir!  I 
answered  to  your  name,  ate  at  your  place,  claimed  the  honors  of  your 
post " 

"Speak  no  more  oft!" 

"Methought  Tis  he  should  tumble  Lucy  on  these  sheets,  not  I,  and  then 
I  lost  your  forty  pound  as  well!  And  you,  sir,  in  a  hammock  in  the  fo'c'sle, 
suffering  in  my  place!" 

"  Tis  over  and  done,"  Ebenezer  said  kindly. 

"Hear  me  out,  sir!  When  that  fearful  storm  was  done  and  we  were 
westering,  I  vowed  to  myself  I'd  have  ye  back  that  money  and  more,  to  pay 
ye  for  your  hardship.  The  Parson  had  got  up  a  new  swindle  on  raising  the 
Virginia  Capes,  and  I  took  a  notion  to  woo  Miss  Lucy  privily  to  my  cause. 
Then  we  would  fleece  the  fleecer!" 

"  'Tis  a  charitable  resolve,  but  you'd  naught  to  use  for  stakes " 

"Nor  did  some  others  that  had  been  gulled,"  Bertrand  replied.  "They 
threatened  to  take  a  stick  to  Tubman  for  all  he  was  a  cleric.  But  he  smelled 
what  was  in  the  wind,  and  gave  'em  a  chance  to  bet  again  on  Maryland. 
They'd  but  to  pledge  some  property  or  other " 

"I'faith!"  cried  Ebenezer.  "His  cassock  frocked  a  very  Jew!" 

"He  had  the  papers  drawn  like  any  lawyer:  we'd  but  to  sign,  and  we 
could  wager  to  the  value  of  the  property." 

"You  signed  a  pledge?"  Ebenezer  asked  incredulously. 

"Aye,  sir." 

"Dear  God!  To  what?" 

"To  Maiden,  sir.  I " 

"To  Maiden!"  Such  was  the  poet's  amazement  he  forgot  to  paddle,  and 
the  next  wave  covered  his  head.  When  he  could  speak  again  he  demanded, 
"Yet  surely  'twas  no  more  than  a  pound  or  two?" 

"I  shan't  conceal  it,  sir;  'twas  rather  more." 

"Ten  pounds,  then?  Twenty?  Ha,  out  with't,  fellow!  What's  forty  pounds 
more  to  a  drowning  man?  What  is't  to  me  if  you  lost  a  hundred?" 

"My  very  thought,  sir,"  Bertrand  said  faintly;  his  strength  was  almost 
gone.  "'Twas  e'en  for  that  I  told  ye,  now  we're  drowning  men.  Lookee 
how  the  dark  comes  closer!  Methinks  I  hear  the  sea  rising  yonder,  too, 
but  I  shan't  be  here  to  feel  the  rain.  Farewell,  sir." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  291  ] 

"Wait!"  Ebenezer  cried,  and  clutched  his  servant  by  one  arm  to  help 
support  him. 

'Tin  done,  sir;  let  me  go/' 

"And  I,  Bertrand;  I  shall  go  with  thee!  Was't  two  hundred  you  lost, 
pray?" 

"  Twas  but  a  pledge,  sir/'  Bertrand  said.  "Who's  to  say  I  lost  a  farthing? 
For  aught  I  know  thou'rt  a  wealthy  man  this  moment." 

"What  did  you  pledge,  man?  Three  hundred  pounds?" 

Bertrand  had  stopped  treading  water  and  would  have  gone  under  had 
not  Ebenezer,  paddling  furiously,  held  him  up  with  one  hand  by  the  shirt 
front. 

"What  doth  it  matter,  sir?  I  pledged  it  all," 

"AZZ/" 

"The  grounds,  the  manor,  the  sot-weed  in  the  storehouse— Tubman  holds 
it  all." 

"Pledged  my  legacy!" 

"Prithee  let  me  drown,  sir,  if  ye  won't  yourself." 

"I  shall!"  said  Ebenezer.  "Sweet  Maiden  gone?  Then  farewell,  and  God 
forgive  you!" 

"Farewell,  sir!" 

"Stay,  I  am  with  thee  yet!"  Master  and  man  embraced  each  other.  "Fare- 
well! Farewell!" 

"Farewell!"  Bertrand  cried  again,  and  they  went  under.  Immediately  both 
fought  free  and  struggled  up  for  air. 

"This  will  not  do!"  Ebenezer  gasped.  "Farewell!" 

"Farewell!"  said  Bertrand.  Again  they  embraced  and  went  under,  and 
again  fought  free. 

"I  cannot  do't,"  said  Bertrand,  "though  my  muscles  scarce  can  move, 
they  bring  me  up."  . 

"Adieu,  then,"  said  the  poet  grimly.  "Thy  confession  gives  me  strength 
to  die  alone.  Farewell!" 

"Farewell!" 

As  before,  Ebenezer  automatically  took  a  deep  breath  before  sinking 
and  so  could  not  do  more  than  put  his  face  under.  This  time,  however, 
his  mind  was  made  up:  he  blew  out  the  air,  bade  the  world  a  last  farewell* 
and  sank  in  earnest. 

A  moment  later  he  was  up  again,  but  for  a  different  reason. 

"The  bottom!  I  felt  the  bottom,  Bertrand!  Tis  not  two  fathom  deep!" 

"Nay!"  gasped  the  valet,  who  had  been  near  submerged  himself.  "How 


[2Q2]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

can  that  be,  in  the  middle  of  the  ocean?  Haply  'twas  a  whale  or  other 
monster." 

"'Twas  hard  sand  bottom!"  Ebenezer  insisted.  He  went  below  again, 
this  time  fearlessly,  and  from  a  depth  of  no  more  than  eight  feet  brought 
up  a  fistful  of  sand  for  proof. 

"Belike  a  shoal,  then,"  Bertrand  said,  unimpressed.  "As  well  forty 
fathom  as  two;  we  can't  stand  up  in  either.  Farewell!" 

"Wait!  Tis  no  cloud  yonder,  man,  but  an  ocean  isle  we've  washed  to! 
Those  are  her  cliffs  that  hide  the  stars;  that  sound  is  the  surf  against  her 
coast!" 

"I  cannot  reach  it." 

"You  can!  'Tis  not  two  hundred  yards  to  shore,  and  less  to  a  standing 
place!"  Fearing  for  his  own  endurance,  he  waited  no  longer  for  his  man 
to  be  persuaded,  but  struck  out  westwards  for  the  starless  sky,  and  soon 
heard  Bertrand  panting  and  splashing  behind.  With  every  stroke  his  con- 
jecture seemed  more  likely;  the  sound  of  gentle  surf  grew  distant  and  rec- 
ognizable, and  the  dark  outline  defined  itself  more  sharply. 

"If  not  an  isle,  at  least  'twill  be  a  rock,"  he  called  over  his  shoulder, 
"and  we  can  wait  for  passing  ships." 

After  a  hundred  yards  they  could  swim  no  farther;  happily,  Ebenezer 
found  that  by  standing  on  tiptoe  he  could  just  clear  the  surface  with  his 
chin. 

'Very  well  for  you,  that  are  so  tall,"  lamented  Bertrand,  "but  I  must 
perish  here  in  sight  of  land!" 

Ebenezer,  however,  would  hear  of  no  such  thing:  he  instructed  the  valet 
to  float  along  behind  him,  hands  on  the  poet's  shoulders  for  support.  It 
was  tedious  going,  especially  for  Ebenezer,  only  the  balk  of  whose  feet 
were  on  the  bottom:  the  weight  behind  pulled  him  off  balance  at  every 
step,  and  though  Bertrand  rode  clear,  his  weight  held  Ebenezer  at  a  con- 
stant depth,  so  that  only  between  waves  could  he  catch  his  breath.  The 
manner  of  their  progress  was  thus:  in  each  trough  Ebenezer  secured  his 
footing  and  drew  a  breath;  when  the  wave  came  he  stroked  with  both  arms 
from  his  breast  and,  with  his  head  under,  rode  perhaps  two  feet— one  of 
which  would  be  lost  in  the  slight  undertow  before  he  regained  his  footing. 
Half  an  hour,  during  which  they  covered  no  more  than  forty  or  fifty  feet, 
was  enough  to  exhaust  his  strength,  but  by  then  the  water  was  just  shallow 
enough  for  the  valet  to  stand  as  well.  It  required  another  thirty  minutes 
to  drag  themselves  over  the  remaining  distance:  had  there  been  breakers 
they  might  yet  have  drowned,  but  the  waves  w^re  never  more  than  two 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [293l 

feet  high,  and  oftener  less  than  one.  At  last  they  reached  a  pebbly  beach 
and,  too  fatigued  for  words,  crawled  on  all  fours  to  the  base  of  the  nearby 
cliff,  where  they  lay  some  while  as  if  a-swoon. 

Presently,  however,  despite  the  mildness  of  the  night  and  the  protection 
provided  by  the  cliff  against  the  westerly  breeze,  they  found  their  resting- 
place  too  cold  for  comfort  and  had  to  search  for  better  shelter  until  their 
clothes  were  dry.  They  made  their  way  northward  along  the  beach  and 
were  fortunate  enough  to  find  not  far  away  a  place  where  the  high  sand- 
stone was  cut  by  a  wooded  ravine  debouching  onto  the  shore.  Here  tall 
wheatlike  weeds  grew  between  the  scrub  pines  and  bayberries;  the  castaways 
curled  together  like  animals  in  a  nest  and  knew  no  more  till  after  dawn. 

It  was  the  sand  fleas  that  roused  them  at  last:  scores  of  sand  fleas  hopped 
and  crawled  all  over  them— attracted,  luckily,  not  by  hunger  but  by  the 
warmth  of  their  bodies— and  tickled  them  awake. 

Ebenezer  jumped  up  and  looked  unbelievingly  about.  "Dear  God!"  he 
laughed.  "I  had  forgot!" 

Bertrand  too  stood  up,  and  the  sand  fleas— not  really  parasites  at  all- 
hopped  madly  in  search  of  cover. 

"And  I,"  he  said,  hoarse  from  exposure.  "I  dreamt  I  was  in  London  with 
my  Betsy.  God  pox  those  vermin  for  waking  me!" 

"But  we're  alive,  at  that.  Tis  more  than  anyone  expected." 

"Thanks  to  you,  sir!"  Bertrand  fell  to  his  knees  before  the  poet.  "'Tis 
a  Catholic  saint  that  saves  the  man  who  ruined  him!" 

"Make  me  no  saint  today,"  Ebenezer  said,  "or  you'll  have  me  a  Jesuit 
tomorrow."  But  he  was  flattered  nonetheless.  "No  doubt  I  had  better 
drowned  when  Father  hears  the  news!" 

Bertrand  clasped  his  hands  together.  "Many's  the  wrong  I've  done  ye, 
sir,  that  I'll  pay  in  Hell  for,  anon— nor  shall  I  want  company  in  the  fire. 
But  I  vow  ye  a  vow  this  instant  I'm  your  slave  fore'er,  to  do  with  as  ye 
will,  and  should  we  e'er  be  rescued  off  this  island  I  shall  give  my  life  to 
gaining  back  your  loss." 

The  Laureate,  embarrassed  by  these  protestations,  replied,  "I  dare  not 
ask  it,  lest  you  pledge  my  soul!"  and  proposed  an  immediate  search  for  food. 
The  day  was  bright,  and  warm  for  mid-September;  they  were  chilled 
through  from  exposure,  and  upon  brushing  the  sand  from  themselves 
found  their  joints  stiff  and  every  muscle  sore  from  the  past  night's  labors. 
But  their  clothes  were  dry  except  for  the  side  on  which  they'd  slept,  and  a 
little  stamping  of  feet  and  swinging  of  arms  was  enough  to  start  the  warm 
blood  coursing.  They  were  without  hats,  wigs,  or  shoes,  but  otherwise  ade- 


[294]  TEDE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

quately  clothed  in  the  sturdy  garb  of  seamen.  Food,  however,  they  had  to 
find,  though  Ebenezer  longed  to  explore  the  island  at  once:  their  stomachs 
rumbled,  and  they  had  not  much  strength.  To  cook  their  meal  was  no 
great  problem:  Bertrand  had  with  him  the  little  tinderbox  he  carried  in 
his  pocket  for  smoking  purposes,  and  though  the  tinder  itself  was  damp, 
the  flint  and  steel  were  as  good  as  new,  and  the  beach  afforded  drift- 
wood and  dry  seaweed.  Finding  something  to  cook  was  another  matter. 
The  woods  no  doubt  abounded  with  small  game;  gulls,  kingfishers,  rails, 
and  sandpipers  soared  and  flitted  along  the  beach;  and  there  were  certainly 
fish  to  be  caught  in  the  shallows;  but  they  had  no  implements  to  hunt  with. 

Bertrand  despaired  afresh.  "  'Tis  a  passing  cruel  prank  fate  plays  us,  to 
trade  a  quick  death  for  a  slow!"  And  despite  his  recent  gratitude,  the  surli- 
ness with  which  he  rejected  various  proposals  for  improvising  weapons  be- 
trayed a  certain  resentment  toward  Ebenezer  for  having  saved  him.  Indeed, 
he  shortly  abandoned  as  hopeless  the  search  for  meaiis  and  went  to  gather 
firewood,  declaring  his  intention  to  starve  at  least  in  relative  comfort.  Eben- 
ezer, left  to  his  own  resources,  resolved  to  walk  some  distance  down  the 
beach,  hoping  to  find  inspiration  along  the  way. 

It  was  a  long  beach.  In  fact,  the  island  appeared  to  be  of  considerable 
size,  for  though  the  shoreline  curved  out  of  sight  in  both  directions,  its 
reappearance  farther  south  suggested  a  cove  or  bay,  perhaps  a  succession 
pf  them;  one  could  not  locate  the  actual  curve  of  the  island's  perimeter. 
Of  its  body  nothing  could  be  seen  except  the  line  of  stratified  cliffs,  caved 
by  the  sea  and  weathered  to  various  browns  and  oranges,  and  the  edge 
trees  of  the  forest  that  ran  back  from  the  precipice— some  with  half  their 
roots  exposed,  some  already  fallen  the  sixty  or  a  hundred  feet  to  the  beach 
and  polished  like  pewter  by  salt  air  and  sand.  If  one  scaled  those  cliffs, 
what  wonders  might  one  see? 

Ebenezer  had  been  at  sea  nearly  half  a  year  in  all,  yet  never  had  he  seen 
it  so  calm.  There  was  no  ground  swell  at  alh  only  catspaws  riffling  here 
and  there,  and  laps  of  waves  not  two  hands  high.  As  he  walked  he  no- 
ticed minnows  darting  in  the  shallows  and  schools  of  white  perch  flipping 
and  rippling  a  few  feet  out.  Crabs,  as  well,  of  a  sort  he  had  never  seen, 
slid  sideways  out  to  safety  as  he  approached;  in  the  water  their  shells  were 
olive  against  the  yellow  sand,  but  the  carapaces  he  found  along  the  beach 
were  cooked  a  reddish-orange  by  the  sun. 

'Would  God  I  had  a  net!" 

Arpund  a  bend  just  past  the  place  where  they  had  crawled  ashore  he 
saw  a  startling  sight— all  along  the  foreshore,  below  the  line  of  weed  and 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  295  1 

driftwood  that  marked  high  tide,  were  sheets  of  white  paper;  others  rolled 
and  curled  in  the  rim  of  the  sea.  The  thought  that  there  might  be  people 
on  the  island  made  his  face  burn,  not  entirely  with  joy— in  fact,  it  was  a 
curious  relief  he  felt,  small  but  undeniable,  when  the  papers  proved  to  be 
the  tale  of  Hicktopeake,  Laughing  King  of  Accomack;  but  he  could  not 
as  yet  say  plainly  what  it  was  that  relieved  him.  He  gathered  all  the  pages 
he  could  find,  though  the  ink  had  run  so  that  only  an  occasional  word 
was  legible;  they  would,  when  dry,  be  good  for  lighting  fires. 

He  started  back  with  them,  thinking  idly  of  John  Smith's  adventures. 
Did  this  curious  pleasure  stem  from  the  fact  that  he,  like  Smith,  was  in 
terra  incognita,  or  was  there  more  to  it?  He  hoped  they  would  find  no 
Indians,  at  least,  like  the  fearsome  fellows  Smith  had  found  spearing  fish 
along  the  shore.  .  .  . 

"  'Sheart!"  he  cried  aloud,  and  kissed  the  wondrous  Journal. 

An  hour  later  their  dinner  was  on  the  fire:  seven  respectable  perch,  half 
a  foot  long  after  cleaning,  roasted  on  a  green  laurel  turnspit,  and  on  a  thin 
piece  of  shale  such  as  could  be  picked  up  anywhere  along  the  cliffs,  four 
crabs,  frankly  an  experiment,  fried  in  their  natural  juices.  The  hard-shelled 
ones  could  not  be  speared,  but  in  pursuit  of  them  Bertrand  had  found 
these  others— similar  in  appearance  but  with  shells  soft  as  Spanish  kid- 
brooding  in  clumps  of  sea-grass  near  the  shore.  Nor  did  they  want  for  water; 
in  a  dozen  places  along  the  base  of  the  cliff  Ebenezer  had  found  natural 
springs  issuing  from  what  looked  like  layers  of  hard  clay,  whence  they  ran 
seawards  across  the  beach  on  the  beds  of  softer  clay  one  encountered  every 
few  hundred  feet.  One  had,  indeed,  to  take  care  in  approaching  these  springs, 
for  the  clay  beds  were  slippery  and  in  places  treacherously  soft,,  as  Ebenezer 
learned:  without  warning  one  could  plunge  knee-deep  into  what  looked 
rock-hard  on  the  surface.  But  the  water  was  clean  and  sweet  from  filtering 
through  the  stone,  and  so  cold  it  stung  the  teeth. 

To  get  full  benefit  of  the  sun  they  did  their  cooking  on  the  beach. 
Bertrand,  humbled  anew  by  his  master's  inspiration,  attended  the  meal;, 
Ebenezer  made  use  of  a  fallen  tree  nearby  for  a  back  rest  and  was  content 
to  chew  upon  a  reed  and  regard  the  sputtering  crabs. 

"Where  do  ye  fancy  we  are?"  inquired  the  valet,  whose  curiosity  had 
returned  with  his  good  spirits. 

"God  knows!"  the  poet  said  cheerfully.  "  'Tis  some  Atlantic  isle,  that's 
sure,  and  belike  not  giv'n  on  the  charts,  else  I  doubt  me  Pound  would 
choose  the  spot  to  plank  us." 


[  296  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

This  conjecture  pleased  the  valet  mightily.  "I  have  heard  tell  of  the 
Fortunate  Islands,  sir;  old  Twigg  at  St.  Giles  was  wont  to  speak  of  'em 
whene'er  her  gout  was  paining." 

"Well  I  recall  it!"  Ebenezer  laughed  "Didn't  I  hear  from  the  cradle 
how  she  stood  watch  all  the  voyage  from  Maryland,  hoping  for  a  sight 
of  them?" 

"Think  ye  this  is  the  place?" 

Tfaith,  'tis  fair  enough,"  the  poet  granted.  "But  the  ocean  swarms  with 
isles  that  man  knows  naught  of.  How  maijy  times  dear  Anna  and  I  have 
pled  with  Burlingame  to  tell  of  them— Grocland,  Helluland,  Stokafixa,  and 
the  rest!  How  many  fond  hours  I've  pored  over  Zeno  the  Venetian,  Peter 
Martyr  d'Anghiera,  and  good  Hakluyt's  books  of  voyages!  E'en  at  Cam- 
bridge, when  I  had  better  done  other  things,  I  spent  whole  evenings  over 
ancient  maps  and  manuscripts.  'Twas  there  at  Magdalene,  in  the  antique 
Book  of  Lismore,  I  saw  described  the  Fortunate  Islands  dear  old  Mrs. 
Twigg  yearned  for,  and  read  how  St.  Brendan  found  them.  'Twas  there 
I  learned  of  Markland,  too,  the  wooded  isle;  and  Frisland  and  Icaria. 
Who  knows  which  this  might  be?  Haply  'tis  Atlantis  risen  from  the  sea, 
or  the  Sunken  Land  of  Buss  old  Frobisher  found;  haply  'tis  Bra,  whose 
women  have  much  pain  in  bearing  children,  or  magic  Daculi,  the  cradle 
island,  where  they  go  for  gentler  labor." 

"It  matters  naught  to  me,"  said  Bertrand,  "so  we  be  not  killed  by  salvages. 
Tis  a  thing  I've  feared  for  since  we  stepped  ashore.  Did  ye  read  what 
manner  of  husbands  the  wenches  have?" 

"I've  shared  your  fear,"  Ebenezer  admitted.  "Some  isles  are  bare  of  men; 
others,  like  famed  Cibola,  boast  wondrous  cities.  Some  are  like  Estotiland, 
whose  folk  are  versed  in  every  art  and  read  from  books  in  Latin;  some 
others  are  like  her  neighbor  Drogio,  where  Zeno  says  the  salvages  eat 
their  captives." 

"Pray  Heav'n  this  is  not  Drogio!" 

"We  shall  climb  to  the  cliff  top  when  we've  eaten,"  Ebenezer  said  "If 
I  can  see  the  island  whole,  I  may  be  able  to  name  it."  He  went  on  to 
explain  that,  while  the  location  and  size  of  islands  varied  widely  from  map 
to  map,  there  was  some  agreement  among  cartographers  as  to  their  shape. 
"If  'tis  in  the  form  of  a  great  crescent,  for  example,  'twill  of  necessity  be 
Mayda;  if  a  small  one,  'tis  doubtless  Tanmare,  that  Peter  Martyr  spoke  of. 
A  large  parallelogram  would  be  Antillia;  a  smaller  one  Salvagio.  A  simple 
rectangle  we  shall  know  for  Ilia  Verde,  and  a  pentagon  for  Reylla.  If  we 
find  this  isle  to  be  a  perfect  circle,  we  must  look  farther  for  its  inland 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  297  ] 

features:  if  'tis  cut  in  twain  by  a  river  we  shall  know  it  for  Brazil,  but  if  in- 
stead 'tis  a  kind  of  ring  or  annulus  about  an  inland  lake,  the  which  hath 
sundry  islets  of  its  own,  then  Heav'n  hath  smiled  on  us  as  ne'er  on  Coro- 
nado,  for  'twill  be  Cibola,  the  Isle  of  the  Seven  Golden  Cities!" 

"  'Sheart,  may  we  find  it  so!"  said  Bertrand,  turning  the  fish  to  brown. 
"Twere  not  like  folk  in  a  golden  city  to  eat  up  strangers,  d'ye  think?" 

"Nay,  'tis  more  likely  they'll  take  us  for  gods  and  grant  our  every 
pleasure,"  Ebenezer  declared.  "Such  was  the  luck  of  stout  Cortez  among 
the  Aztecs,  that  had  a  town  of  gold:  e'en  the  Emperor  Montezuma  bowed 
to  him" 

"Marry,  I  hope  and  pray  'tis  the  Isle  of  Seven  Cities,  then;  I  shall  have 
three  and  you  the  rest,  to  make  up  for  losing  Maiden!  Doth  the  book  say 
aught  of  the  women  in  these  towns,  whether  they  be  fat  or  thin,  or  fair 
of  face?" 

"Naught  that  I  can  recall,"  the  poet  replied. 

"I'God,  let  us  make  short  work  of  these  fish,  sir!"  Bertrand  urged,  sliding 
them  from  the  laurel  spit  to  the  clean-washed  slates  they  had  found  to  eat 
from.  "I  cannot  wait  to  see  my  golden  towns!" 

"Be  not  o'erhasty,  now;  this  may  not  be  Cibola  after  all.  For  aught  we 
know  it  may  lie  in  the  shape  of  a  human  hand,  in  which  case  our  goose 
is  cooked:  Hand-of-Satan  hath  such  a  shape,  and  'tis  one  of  the  InsuLae 
Demonium—the  demons'  isles." 

This  final  possibility  chastened  them  sufficiently  to  do  full  justice  to  the 
perch  and  soft  crabs,  which  they  seasoned  with  hunger,  ate  with  their  fingers, 
and  washed  down  with  clamshellfuls  of  cold  spring  water.  Then  they 
stuffed  an  extra  soft  crab  each  into  their  pockets,  grease  and  all,  and  climbed 
through  the  ravine  to  the  top  of  the  cliff,  whence  to  their  chagrin 
they  could  see  no  more  than  open  water  on  one  side  of  them  and  trees 
on  the  other.  The  sun  was  still  but  forty-five  degrees  above  the  eastern 
horizon;  there  was  time  for  some  hours  of  exploration  before  they  need 
think  of  dinner  and  a  shelter  for  the  night. 

"What  course  do  ye  propose,  sir?"  Bertrand  asked. 

"I  have  a  plan,"  said  Ebenezer.  "But  ere  I  tell  it,  what  course  do  you 
propose?" 

"  Tis  not  for  me  to  say,  sir.  I'll  own  I  have  spoken  out  of  turn  befot^ 
but  that's  behind  me.  Ye  have  saved  my  life  and  forgiven  the  harm  I've 
done  ye;  I'll  dance  to  any  tune  ye  call." 

Ebenezer  acknowledged  the  propriety  of  these  sentiments,  but  took  issue 
with  them  nevertheless.  "We  are  cast  here  on  some  God-forsaken  isle,"  he 


[  298  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

said,  "remote  from  the  world  of  bob-wig  and  dildo.  What  sense  here  hath 
the  title  Poet  Laureate,  or  the  labels  man  and  master?  Thou'rt  one  man, 
I  another,  and  there's  an  end  on't." 

Bertrand  considered  this  for  a  moment.  "I  confess  I  have  my  preferences," 
he  said.  "If  'twere  mine  to  decide,  I'd  strike  out  inland  with  all  haste.  Haply 
we'll  find  one  or  two  golden  cities  ere  dinnertime." 

"We've  no  certain  knowledge  this  is  the  Isle  of  Seven  Cities/'  Ebenezer 
reminded  him,  "nor  do  I  relish  walking  overland  without  shoes.  What  I 
propose  is  that  we  walk  along  the  shore  to  learn  the  length  and  shape  of 
the  island.  Haply  'twill  identify  our  find,  or  show  us  what  manner  of  people 
live  here,  if  any.  Nay,  more,  we've  paper  aplenty  here,  and  charcoal  sticks 
to  mark  with:  we  can  count  our  paces  to  every  turn  and  draw  a  map  as  we 

go" 

"That's  so,"  the  valet  admitted.  "But  'twould  mean  another  meal  of  fish 
and  soft  crabs  and  another  night  upon  the  ground.  If  we  make  haste  in- 
land, haply  'tis  golden  plates  we'll  eat  from,  and  sleep  in  a  golden  bed, 
by  Heav'n!"  His  voice  grew  feverish.  "Just  fancy  us  a  pair  of  bloody  gods, 
sir!  Wouldn't  we  get  us  godlets  on  their  maiden  girls  and  pass  the  plate 
come  Sunday?  Tis  a  better  post  than  Baltimore's  paltry  sainthood, 
b'm'faith!  I'd  not  trade  places  with  the  Pope!" 

"All  that  may  happen  yet,"  Ebenezer  said.  "On  the  other  hand  we 
might  encounter  monsters,  or  salvage  Indians  that  will  eat  us  for  dinner. 
Methinks  'twere  wise  to  scout  around  somewhat,  to  get  the  lay  of  the  land: 
what  do  a  few  days  matter  to  an  immortal  god?" 

The  prudence  of  this  plan  was  undeniable;  reluctant  as  he  was  to  post- 
pone for  even  a  day  the  joys  of  being  a  deity,  Bertrand  had  no  mind  to 
be  a  meal  for  either  cannibals  or  dragons— both  of  whose  existence  he  might 
have  been  skeptical  of  in  London,  but  not  here—and  so  agreed  to  it  readily, 
if  not  enthusiastically.  They  made  their  way  down  to  the  beach  again, 
marked  their  point  of  departure  with  a  stake  to  which  was  tied  a  strip  of 
rag  from  Bertrand's  shirt,  and  struck  out  northward  along  the  shore,  Eben- 
ezer counting  paces  as  they  walked. 

He  had  not  reached  two  hundred  when  Bertrand  caugjit  his  arm. 

"Hark!"  he  whispered.  "Listen  yonder!" 

They  stood  still.  From  behind  a  fallen  tree  not  far  ahead,  a  hackle- 
raising  sound  came  down  on  the  breeze:  it  was  half  a  moan,  half  a  tuneless 
chant,  lugubrious  and  wild, 

"Let  us  flee!"  Bertrand  whispered.  "'Tis  one  of  those  monsters^" 

"Nay,"  Ebenezer  said,  his  skin  a-prickle.  "That  is  no  beast." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  299  ] 

"A  hungry  salvage,  then;  come  on!" 

The  cry  floated  down  to  them  again. 

"Methinks  'tis  the  sound  of  pain,  not  of  hunger,  Bertrand.  Some  wight 
lies  hurt  by  yonder  log/' 

"God  save  him,  then!"  the  valet  cried.  "If  we  go  near,  his  friends  will 
leap  us  from  behind  and  make  a  meal  of  us." 

"You'll  give  up  your  post  so  lightly?"  Ebenezer  teased,  "What  sort  of 
god  are  you,  that  will  not  aid  his  votaries?" 

A  third  time  came  the  pitiable  sound,  and  though  the  valet  stood  too 
terrified  to  move,  Ebenezer  approached  the  fallen  tree  and  peered  over 
it.  A  naked  black  man  lay  there  on  the  sand,  face  down,  his  wrists  and  ankles 
bound;  his  back  was  striped  with  the  healed  scars  of  many  floggings,  and 
from  myriad  cuts  and  scratches  on  his  legs  he  bled  upon  the  sand.  He  was 
a  tall,  well-muscled  man  in  the  prime  of  life,  but  obviously  exhausted;  his 
skin  was  wet,  and  a  spotty  trail  of  blood  ran  from  where  he  lay  to  the 
water's  edge.  Even  as  Ebenezer  watched  him  from  above,  unobserved,  he 
lifted  his  head  with  a  mighty  effort  and  resumed  the  woeful  incantation, 
chanting  in  a  savage-sounding  tongue. 

"Come  hither!"  the  poet  called  to  Bertrand,  and  scrambled  over  the  log. 
The  Negro  wrenched  over  on  his  side  and  shrank  against  the  tree  trunk, 
regarding  the  newcomer  wildly.  He  was  a  prepossessing  fellow  with  high 
cheekbones  and  forehead,  massive  browbones  over  his  great  white  eyes,  a 
nose  splayed  flat  against  his  face,  and  a  scalp  shaved  nearly  bald  and 
scarified— like  his  cheeks,  forehead,  and  upper  arms— in  strange  designs. 

"God  in  Heaven!"  Bertrand  cried  on  seeing  him.  The  black  man's  eyes 
rolled  in  his  direction.  "  'Tis  a  regular  salvage!" 

"His  hands  are  bound  behind  him,  and  he's  hurt  from  crawling  over  the 
stones." 

"Run,  then!  He'll  ne'er  catch  up  with  us!" 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  the  Laureate,  and  turning  to  the  black  man  he 
said  loudly  and  distinctly,  "Let-me*untie~the-ropes." 

His  answer  was  a  string  of  exotic  gibberish;  the  black  man  clearly  ex- 
pected them  to  kill  him  momently. 

"Nay,  nay,"  Ebenezer  protested. 

"Prithee  do  not  do't,  sir!"  said  Bertrand.  "The  wretch  will  leap  on  ye 
the  minute  he's  free!  Think  ye  these  salvages  know  aught  of  gratitude?" 

Ebenezer  shrugged.  "They  could  know  no  less  oft  than  some  others. 
Hath  he  not  been  thrown,  like  us,  into  the  sea  to  die  and  made  his  way 
by  main  strength  to  this  shore?  I-am4he-Poet-Laureate-of-Maryland"  he 


[  300  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

declared  to  the  black  man;  "I-will-not-harm-you"  To  illustrate  he  bran- 
dished a  stick  as  though  to  strike  with  it,  but  snapped  it  over  his  knee 
instead  and  flung  it  away,  shaking  his  head  and  smiling.  He  pointed  to 
Bertrand  and  himself,  flung  his  arm  cordially  about  the  valet's  shoulders 
and  said  "This-man^nd-I-are-friends.  You"— he  pointed  to  all  three  in  turn 
— "shall-be-our-friend'OS'-well" 

The  man  seemed  still  to  be  fearful,  but  his  eyes  showed  more  suspicion 
now  than  dread.  When  Ebenezer  forcibly  moved  behind  him  to  release 
his  hands  and  Bertrand,  at  his  master's  insistence,  reluctantly  went  to  work 
on  the  ropes  that  bound  his  feet,  the  fellow  whimpered. 

Ebenezer  patted  his  shoulder.  "Have  no  fear,  friend/' 

It  took  some  labor  to  undo  the  ropes,  for  the  knots  were  swollen  from 
the  water  and  pulled  tight  by  the  captive's  exertions. 

"Whose  prisoner  do  ye  take  him  for?"  asked  Bertrand.  "My  guess  is,  he's 
one  of  those  human  sacrifices  ye  told  me  of,  that  the  folk  in  golden  cities 
use  in  lieu  of  money  on  the  Sabbath." 

"That  may  well  be,"  the  poet  agreed.  "His  captors  must  in  sooth  be 
clever  men,  and  no  mere  salvages,  else  they  ne'er  could  make  such  fine 
stout  rope  or  tie  such  wondrous  hitches  in't.  Haply  they  were  ferrying  him 
to  the  slaughter  when  he  escaped;  or  belike  'twas  some  sea-god  he  was 
meant  for.  Confound  these  knots!" 

"In  any  case,"  said  Bertrand,  "'twill  scarcely  please  'em  to  learn  we  set 
him  loose.  'Tis  like  stealing  from  the  collection  plate  in  church." 

"They  need  not  know  oft.  Besides,  we  are  their  rightful  gods,  are  we 
not?  What  we  do  with  our  offerings  is  our  own  affair." 

This  last,  to  be  sure,  he  spoke  in  jest.  They  loosened  the  final  knots  and 
retreated  a  few  paces  for  safety's  sake,  not  certain  what  the  man  would 
do. 

"We'll  run  in  different  directions,"  Ebenezer  said.  "When  he  takes  out 
after  one,  the  other  will  pursue  him  from  behind." 

The  black  shook  off  the  loosened  bonds,  still  looking  warily  about,  and 
rose  with  difficulty  to  his  feet.  Then,  as  if  realizing  that  he  was  free,  he 
stretched  his  limbs,  grinned  mightily,  raised  his  arms  to  the  sun,  and  de- 
livered a  brief  harangue  in  its  direction,  interspersing  his  address  with 
gestures  in  their  direction. 

"Look  at  the  size  of  him!"  Bertrand  marveled.  "Not  e'en  Boabdil  was 
so  made!" 

Ebenezer  frowned  at  mention  of  the  Moor.  "Methinks  he's  speaking  to 
the  sun  now;  belike  'tis  a  prayer  of  thanks." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  JO1  ] 

"He  is  a  very  percheron  stud!" 

Then,  to  their  considerable  discomfort,  the  fellow  ended  his  speech  and 
turned  to  face  them;  even  took  a  step  towards  them. 

"Run!"  cried  Bertrand. 

But  no  violence  was  offered  them;  instead,  the  black  prostrated  him- 
self at  their  feet  and  with  muttered  reverences  embraced  their  ankles  each 
in  turn;  nor  would  he  rise  when  done,  but  knelt  with  forehead  on  the 
sand. 

"'Sbody,  sir!  What  doth  this  signify?" 

"I  would  not  say  for  certain,"  Ebenezer ,  replied,  "but  it  seems  to  me 
you  have  what  erst  you  wished:  This  wight  hath  bid  his  farewells  to  the 
sun  and  taken  us  for  his  gods," 

And  so  indeed  it  seemed;  the  man  moved  not  a  muscle,  but  remained 
in  his  attitude  of  worship,  clearly  awaiting  his  benefactors'  pleasure. 

"Ffaith,"  the  valet  said  uncomfortably.  "We  did  not  ask  for  this!  What 
in  Heav'n  would  he  have  us  do?" 

"Who  knows?"  the  poet  answered.  "I  never  was  a  god  till  now.  We  gave 
him  his  life,  and  so  he's  ours  to  bless  or  bastinado,  I  suppose."  He  sighed. 
"In  any  case  let's  bid  him  rise  ere  he  takes  a  backache:  no  god  keeps  men 
upon  their  knees  forever." 


17:    THE  LAUREATE  MEETS  THE  ANACOSTIN  KING 
AND  LEARNS  THE  TRUE  NAME  OF  HIS  OCEAN  ISLE 


'ONE  THING  IS  CERTAIN,"  EBENEZER  SAID,  WHEN  THEY  RESUMED  THEIR 

exploration  of  the  beach:  "we  must  demand  obedience  of  this  fellow,  if 
we're  to  be  his  deities.  That  is  the  clearest  common  attribute  of  gods,  for 
one  thing,  and  the  safest  policy  besides:  he  may  slay  the  twain  of  us  if  he 
learns  we're  mortal." 

They  had  raised  the  black  man  up  and  bade  him  wash  his  wounds,  which 
happily  were  no  worse  than  scratches  from  the  shells,  and  had  moreover 
presented  him  with  the  extra  soft  crabs— cold  and  linty  from  their  pockets, 
but  edible  nonetheless— and  stood  by  while  he  made  short  work  of  them. 
Their  charity  provoked  a  fresh  display  of  prostrate  gratitude,  which  acknowl- 
edged, they  had  squatted  with  him  some  while  on  the  sand  and  tried  by 


[  £02  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

words,  gestures,  and  pictures  drawn  with  sticks  to  hold  converse.  What  was 
the  name  of  the  island?  Ebenezer  had  asked  him.  What  was  his  name? 
Where  was  his  town?  Who  had  bound  his  limbs  and  flung  him  into  the 
sea,  and  for  what  cause?  And  Bertrand,  not  to  be  outdone,  had  added 
queries  of  his  own:  How  distant  from  where  they  sat  was  the  first  of  the 
golden  cities?  What  sort  of  false  gods  had  its  citizens,  and  were  the  ladies 
dark  or  fair? 

But  though  the  black  man  had  heard  their  inquiries  with  worshipful 
attention,  his  eyes  had  shown  more  love  than  understanding;  all  they  could 
get  from  him  was  his  name,  which— though  it  was  doubtless  from  no  civi- 
lized tongue  at  all— sounded  variously  to  Ebenezer  like  Drehpunkter, 
Dreipunkter,  Dreckpdchter,  Drogueptcheur,  Droitpacteur,  Drupegre, 
Drfcheporteur,  or  even  Despartidor,  and  to  Bertrand  invariably  like 
Drdkepecker.  For  that  matter  it  may  have  been  not  his  name  at  all  but 
some  savage  call  to  worship,  since  every  time  they  said  the  word  he  made 
a  genuflection. 

"What  shall  we  do  with  him?"  Bertrand  asked.  "He  shows  no  mind  to 
go  about  his  business." 

"So  be't,"  Ebenezer  replied.  "Let  him  help  with  ours,  then.  Tis  readi- 
ness to  take  orders  that  makes  the  subject,  and  readiness  to  give  them  that 
makes  the  lord.  Besides,  if  we  set  him  labors  enough  he  can  plot  us  no 
mischief." 

They  resolved^  therefore,  to  let  the  big  black  man  accompany  them  as 
food-  and  wood-gatherer,  cook,  and  general  factotum;  indeed,  they  were 
given  little  choice,  for  he  clearly  had  no  intention  of  leaving  and  could  if 
angered  have  destroyed  them  both  in  half  a  minute.  The  three  set  out 
northward  once  again,  Ebenezer  and  Bertrand  in  the  lead  and  Drake- 
pecker  a  respectful  pace  or  two  behind.  For  an  hour  or  more  they  trudged 
over  pebbles,  soft  sand,  and  beds  of  red,  blue,  and  egg-white  clay,  always 
with  the  steep  unbroken  cliff-face  on  their  left  and  the  strangely  placid 
ocean  on  their  right;  every  turn  Bertrand  expected  to  discover  a  golden 
city,  but  it  would  reveal  instead  only  a  small  cove  or  other  indentation 
of  the  shoreline,  which  in  the  main  ran  still  directly  north.  Then,  leg  weary 
and  footsore,  they  stopped  to  rest  beneath  the  mouth  of  a  natural  cave 
some  ten  or  twelve  feet  up  on  the  cliff  wall.  The  savage,  to  whom  Ebenezer 
had  entrusted  the  rude  spear  with  which  he'd  caught  their  breakfast,  in- 
dicated by  brandishing  it  and  rubbing  his  stomach  a  desire  to  forage  for 
dinner;  upon  receiving  permission  he  scrambled  like  a  monkey  up  the  rock- 
face  and  disappeared. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  303  ] 

Bertrand  watched  him  go  and  sighed.  "  Tis  the  last  we'll  see  of  Drake- 
pecker;  and  good  riddance,  says  I." 

"What!"  Ebenezer  smiled.  "Thou'rt  so  soon  tired  of  being  God?" 

The  valet  admitted  that  he  was.  "I  had  rather  do  the  work  myself  than 
lord  it  o'er  so  fearsome  a  wight  as  he.  This  very  minute  he  might  be  plotting 
to  spit  the  twain  of  us  on  his  spear  and  fry  us  up  for's  dinner!" 

"I  think  not,"  said  the  poet.  "He  likes  to  serve  us." 

"Ah,  sir,  no  man  enjoys  his  bondage!  Think  you  there' d  be  a  servant 
in  the  world,  if  each  man  had  his  choice?  Tis  ill  luck,  force,  and  penury 
that  make  some  men  serve  others;  all  three  are  galling  masters." 

"What  then  of  habit,  and  natural  predilection?"  teased  Ebenezer.  "Some 
men  are  born  to  serve." 

Bertrand  considered  these  for  a  moment  and  then  said,  "Habit's  no  first 
cause,  but  a  child  of  bleak  necessity,  is't  not?  Our  legs  grew  calloused  to 
the  pirates'  shackles,  but  we  wished  them  off  us  nonetheless.  As  for  this 
natural  bent  to  slavery,  'tis  a  tale  hatched  by  the  masters:  no  slave  believes 
it." 

"A  moment  past  you  spoke  of  doing  the  chores  thyself,"  Ebenezer  said, 
"but  never  a  word  of  me  doing  them;  yet  'twas  I  proposed  we  forget  our 
former  stations,  since  the  wilderness  knows  naught  of  classes." 

Bertrand  laughed.  "Then  to  my  list  of  yokes  add  obligation;  he's  no  more 
mild  a  master." 

"Call  him  gratitude  or  love  instead,"  said  Ebenezer,  "and  watch  how 
men  rejoice  in  their  indenture!  This  Drakepecker,  as  you  call  him,  chose  his 
present  bondage  when  we  set  him  free  of  a  worse,  and  he  may  end  it  by 
his  own  leave  when  he  lists.  Therefore  I  fear  him  not,  and  look  to  have 
him  serve  us  many  a  day."  He  then  asked  the  valet  how  he  proposed  to 
lord  it  over  an  entire  city  alone,  if  one  subject  shared  between  them  scared 
him  so. 

"'Tis  god  I  want  to  be,  not  king,"  the  valet  said.  "Let  others  give 
and  take  commands,  or  lead  and  put  down  mutinies;  I'll  stock  me  a  temple 
with  food  and  drink  and  sleep  all  morning  in  my  golden  bed!  Ten  young 
priestesses  I'll  have  for  company,  that  shall  hear  confessions  and  say  the 
prayers  in  church,  and  a  brace  of  great  eunuchs  to  take  collection  and 
guard  the  money." 

"Sloth  and  viciousness!" 

"Would  ye  not  do  the  same,  or  any  wight  else?  Who  wants  the  chore 
of  ruling?  'Tis  the  crown  men  lust  for,  not  the  scepter." 

"Who  weto  the  one  must  wield  the  other,"  Ebenezer  answered*  "The 


[  304  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

man  men  bow  to  is  lead  sheep  in  a  running  flock,  that  must  set  their  pace 
or  perish." 

"Ye'll  rule,  then,  in  your  city?"  Bertrand  wanted  to  know. 

"Aye,"  said  Ebenezer.  They  were  sitting  side  by  side,  their  backs  against 
the  cliff,  gazing  idly  out  to  sea.  "And  what  a  government  would  I  establish! 
Twould  be  an  anti-Platonist  republic/' 

"I  .should  hope,  sir!  What  need  have  you  of  the  Pope,  when  thou'rt  the 
god?" 

"Nay,  Bertrand.  This  Plato  spoke  of  a  nation  ruled  by  philosophers,  to 
which  no  poets  might  be  admitted  save  those  that  sing  the  praises  of  the 
government.  There  is  an  antique  quarrel  'twixt  poet  and  sage." 

"Marry,  as  for  that,"  Bertrand  said,  "'tis  little  different  from  England 
or  any  place  else;  no  prudent  king  would  let  a  poet  attack  him.  Why  did 
Lord  Baltimore  employ  ye,  if  not  to  sing  the  praises  of  his  government, 
or  John  Coode  work  your  ruin,  if  not  to  squelch  the  poem?  Why,  this 
wondrous  place  ye  speak  of  could  as  well  be  Maryland!" 

"You  miss  my  point,"  Ebenezer  said  uncomfortably.  "To  forbid  a  sub- 
ject for  verse  is  one  thing;  to  prescribe,  another.  In  my  town  philosophers 
will  all  be  welcome—  so  long  as  they  do  not  start  insurrections—  but  a  poet 
shall  be  their  god,  and  a  poet  their  king,  and  poets  all  their  councillors: 
'twill  be  a  poetacracyl  Methinks  'twas  this  Sir  William  Davenant  had  in's 
mind,  what  time  he  sailed  in  vain  to  govern  Maryland.  The  poet-king, 
Bertrand-'tis  a  thought  to  conjure  with!  Nor  fc't  folly,  I  swear:  who  better 
reads  the  hearts  of  men,  philosopher  or  poet?  Which  is  in  closer  harmony 
with  the  world?"  . 

He  had  more  to  say  to  Bertrand  on  the  subject,  which  had  been  stewing 
all  the  morning  in  his  fancy,  but  at  this  instant  a  pair  of  savages  fell, 
as  it  were,  out  of  the  blue  and  stood  before  them,  spears  in  hand.  They 
were  half-grown  boys,  no  more  than  ten  or  twelve  years  old,  dressed  in 
matchcoats  and  deerskin  trousers;  their  skin  was  not  brown-black  like  Drake- 
pecker  g  but  copper-brown,  the  color  of  the  cliffs,  and  their  hair,  so  far  from 
being  short  and  woolly,  fell  straight  and  black  below  their  shoulders  They 
put  on  the  fiercest  look  they  could  manage  and  aimed  their  spears  at  the 
white  men.  Bertrand  shrieked.  - 

"  'Sheartr  cried  Ebenezer,  and  raised  his  arms  to  protect  his  face.  "Drake- 
pecker!  Where  is  Drakepecker!" 

-  hath  undone  usr  Bertrand  wailed-  <<llie  mGicl*  hath 


us 


But  it  was  unthinkable  that  the  boys  had  leaped  from  the  cliff-top,  and 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  305  ] 

unlikely  that  they  had  climbed  down  without  making  a  sound  or  dislodging 
a  pebble.  It  seemed  probable  to  Ebenezer  that  they  had  been  hiding  in 
the  cave,  above  their  heads,  waiting  their  chance  to  jump.  One  of  them 
addressed  the  prisoners  sharply  in  an  unknown  tongue,  signaling  them  to 
rise,  and  pointed  to  the  mouth  of  the  cave. 

"Must  we  climb  up?"  asked  Ebenezer,  and  for  answer  felt  a  spear  point 
prick  his  ham. 

"Tell  them  we're  gods!"  Bertrand  urged.  "They  mean  to  eat  us  alive!" 

The  command  was  repeated;  they  scrambled  up  the  rocks  to  the  lip  of 
the  cave.  The  boys  chattered  as  though  to  someone  inside,  and  from  the 
shadow  an  older,  calmer  voice  answered.  The  prisoners  were  forced  to  enter 
—bent  over,  since  the  roof  was  never  more  than  five  feet  high.  The  inside 
stank  of  excrement  and  other  unnameable  odors.  After  a  few  moments, 
when  their  eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the  dark,  they  saw  a  full-grown 
savage  lying  naked  on  a  blanket  on  the  floor,  which  was  littered  with  shells, 
bones,  and  crockery  pots.  At  least  part  of  the  stench  came  from  his 
right  knee,  wrapped  in  ragged  bandages.  He  raised  himself  on  his  elbows, 
wincing,  and  scrutinized  the  prisoners.  Then,  to  their  unspeakable  sur- 
prise, he  said  "English?" 

"FGod!"  Ebenezer  gasped.  "Who  are  you,  sir,  that  you  speak  our 
tongue?" 

The  savage  considered  again  their  matted  hair,  torn  clothing,  and  bare 
feet.  "You  seek  Quassapelagh?  Did  Warren  send  you  for  Quassapelagh?" 
The  boys  moved  closer  with  their  spears. 

"We  seek  no  one,"  the  poet  said,  clearly  and  loudly.  "We  are  Englishmen, 
thrown  into  the  sea  by  pirates  to  drown;  we  reached  this  isle  last  night, 
by  great  good  fortune,  but  we  know  not  where  we  are." 

One  of  the  boys  spoke  excitedly  and  brandished  his  spear,  eager  to  have 
at  them,  but  the  older  man  silenced  him  with  a  word. 

"Prithee  spare  us,"  Ebenezer  pleaded.  "We  do  not  know  this  Warren 
that  you  speak  ofr  or  any  soul  else  hereabouts." 

Again  the  youths  made  as  if  to  run  them  through.  The  injured  savage 
rebuked  them  more  sharply  than  before  and  apparently  ordered  them  to 
stand  guard  outside,  for  they  evacuated  the  clammy  cave  with  some  show 
of  reluctance. 

"They  are  good  boys,"  the  savage  said.  "They  hate  the  English  as  much 
as  I,  and  wish  to  kill  you." 

"Then  there  are  English  on  this  island?  What  is  the  name  oft?"  Bertrand 
was  still  too  frightened  to  speak,  but  Ebenezer,  despite  his  recent  daydreams 


[  306  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

of  a  poet's  island,  could  not  contain  his  joy  at  the  prospect  of  rejoining 
his  countrymen. 

The  savage  regarded  him  narrowly.  "You  do  not  know  where  you  are?" 

"Only  that  'tis  an  ocean  isle/7  the  Laureate  replied. 

"And  you  know  not  the  name  of  Quassapelagh,  the  Anacostin  King?" 

"Nay." 

For  some  moments  their  captor  continued  to  search  their  faces.  Then, 
as  though  persuaded  of  their  innocence,  he  lay  back  on  the  pallet  and 
stared  at  the  roof  of  the  cave. 

"I  am  Quassapelagh,"  he  declared.  "The  Anacostin  King." 

"KingF  Bertrand  exclaimed  in  a  whisper  to  Ebenezer.  "D'ye  think 
he's  king  of  one  of  our  golden  towns?" 

"This  is  the  land  of  the  Piscataways,"  Quassapelagh  went  on.  "These 
are  the  fields  and  forests  of  the  Piscataways.  That  water  is  the  water  of 
the  Piscataways;  these  cliffs  are  our  cliffs.  They  have  belonged  to  the  Pis- 
cataways since  the  beginning  of  the  world.  My  father  was  a  king  in  this 
land,  and  his  father,  and  his  father;  and  so  for  a  time  was  I.  But  Quassapel- 
agh is  king  no  more,  nor  will  my  sons  and  grandsons  rule." 

"Ask  him  which  way  to  the  nearest  golden  town,"  Bertrand  whispered, 
but  his  master  gestured  him  to  silence. 

<r\Vhy  do  you  lie  here  in  this  miserable  den?"  Ebenezer  asked  "  'Tis 
no  fit  dwelling  for  a  king,  methinks." 

"This  country  is  Quassapelagh's  no  more,"  the  King  replied.  "Your 
people  have  stolen  it  away.  They  came  in  ships,  with  sword  and  cannon, 
and  took  the  fields  and  forests  from  my  father.  They  have  herded  us  like 
animals  and  driven  us  off.  And  when  I  said,  'This  land  belongs  to  the 
Piscataways,'  they  turned  me  into  prison.  Our  emperor,  Ochotomaquath, 
must  hide  like  an  animal  in  the  hills,  and  in  his  place  sits  a  young  whelp 
Passop,  that  licketh  the  English  emperor's  boots.  My  people  must  do  his 
bidding  or  starve." 

"Injustice!"  Ebenezer  cried.  "Did  you  hear,  Bertrand?  Who  is  this  War- 
ren that  so  presumes,  and  makes  me  feel  shame  to  be  an  Englishman? 
Some  rogue  of  a  pirate,  I'll  wager,  that  hath  claimed  the  island  for  his  own. 
1'faith!"  He  clutched  at  the  valet's  sleeve.  "I  recall  old  Carl,  the  sailmaker, 
spoke  of  a  pirate  town  called  Libertatia,  on  the  Isle  of  Madagascar;  pray 
God 'tis  not  the  same!" 

"I  know  not  the  Emperor's  name,"  Quassapelagh  said,  "for  he  hath  but 
ktely  come  to  oppress  my  nation.  This  Warren  is  but  a  jailer  and  chief 
of  soldiers " 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  307  ] 

At  this  moment  a  great  commotion  began  outside  the  cave. 

"Drakepecker!"  Bertrand  cried. 

There  at  the  cave's  mouth  the  great  black  stood  indeed:  at  his  feet, 
dropped  in  anger,  lay  the  rude  spear  improvised  by  Ebenezer,  on  which 
two  bloody  rabbits  were  impaled,  and  in  each  great  hand  he  held  a  young 
sentry  by  the  neck.  One  he  had  already  by  some  means  disarmed,  and 
before  the  other  could  use  his  weapon  to  advantage,  the  fearsome  Negro 
cracked  their  heads  together  and  flung  them  to  the  beach  below. 

"Bravo!"  Ebenezer  cheered. 

"In  here,  Drakepecker!"  Bertrand  called,  and  leaped  to  pinion  Quassa- 
pelagh.  "Come  hither  and  crack  this  rascal's  head  as  well!" 

The  Negro  snatched  up  his  spear  and  charged  into  the  cave  with  a  roar, 
plainly  intending  to  add  Quassapelagh  to  his  other  trophies. 

"Stay!  Drakepecker!"  Ebenezer  commanded. 

"Stick  him!"  shouted  Bertrand,  holding  Quassapelagh's  arms  from  be- 
hind. The  savage  offered  no  resistance,  but  regarded  the  intruder  with  stern 
contempt. 

"I  forbid  it!"  said  Ebenezer,  and  grasped  the  spear. 

Bertrand  protested:  "  'Tis  what  the  wretch  designed  for  us,  sir!" 

"If  so,  he  showed  no  sign  oft.  Release  him."  When  his  arms  were  free 
Quassapelagh  lay  back  on  the  blanket  and  stared  impassively  at  the  ceiling. 
"Those  young  boys  were  his  sons,"  Ebenezer  said.  "Go  with  Drakepecker 
and  fetch  them  here,  if  he  hath  not  killed  them."  The  two  men  went, 
Bertrand  ^th  considerable  misgivings  which  he  did  not  hesitate  to  give 
voice  to,  and  Ebenezer  said  to  Quassapelagh,  "Forgive  my  man  for  in- 
juring your  sons;  he  thought  we  were  in  peril.  We  mean  you  no  harm  at 
all,  sir.  You  have  suffered  enough  at  English  hands." 

But  the  savage  remained  impassive.  "Shall  I  rejoice  to  find  an  English- 
man with  mercy?"  He  pointed  to  his  evil-smelling  knee.  "Which  is  more 
merciful,  a  spear  in  the  heart  or  this  poisoned  knee,  that  I  cut  while  flee- 
ing like  a  rabbit  in  the  night?  If  my  sons  are  dead,  I  starve;  if  they  live 
I  die  of  this  poison.  Your  heart  is  good:  I  ask  you  to  kill  Quassapelagh." 

Presently  Bertrand  and  the  Negro  returned,  marching  at  the  points  of 
their  spears  the  two  young  boys,  who  seemed  to  be  suffering  only  from 
bruises  and  sore  heads. 

"It  is  enough  that  my  sons  live,"  Quassapelagh  said.  "Tell  your  man  to 
kill  me  now." 

"Nay,  I've  better  work  for  him,"  Ebenezer  said,  and  to  Bertrand  he 
declared,  "Drakepecker  will  remain  here  with  the  king  and  mind  his  wants 


[  208  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

while  we  sound  the  temper  of  these  English  bandits.  The  boys  can  lead  us 
to  the  outskirts  of  their  settlement." 

"Tis  not  mine  to  argue/'  Bertiand  sighed.  "I  only  hope  they've  not 
snatched  all  the  golden  towns  and  set  themselves  up  as  gods/' 

Ebenezer  then  made  clear  to  the  Negro,  by  means  of  signs,  that  he 
wished  him  to  feed  the  King  and  dress  the  infected  knee;  to  the  latter  item, 
presented  more  as  a  query  than  a  command,  the  black  man  responded 
with  bright  affirmative  nods  and  an  enthusiastic  chatter  that  suggested 
acquaintance  with  some  prophylactic  or  therapeutic  measures.  Without 
more  ado  he  removed  the  dirty  dressing  and  examined  the  malodorous  in- 
flammation with  a  clearly  chirurgical  interest.  Then,  in  his  own  tongue, 
accompanying  his  orders  with  enough  gesticulation  for  clarity,  he  directed 
one  of  the  boys  to  clean  and  cook  the  rabbits  and  sent  the  other  to  fetch 
two  crockery  pots  of  water. 

"  'Sheart!"  Bertiand  said  respectfully.  "The  wighf  s  a  physician  as  well! 
Tis  an  honor  to  be  his  god,  is't  not,  sir?" 

The  poet  smiled.  "Haply  he  merits  a  better,  Bertrand;  he  is  in  sooth  a 
masterly  creation." 

Before  two  hours  had  elapsed,  the  rabbits  were  cooked  and  eaten—along 
with  raw  oysters  provided  by  the  youths  and  a  kind  of  parched  and  pow- 
dered corn  called  rockahominy,  of  which  the  King  had  a  large  jarful— and 
Quassapelagh's  wound  had  been  lanced  with  his  own  knife,  drained  of  pus, 
washed  clean,  and  dressed  with  some  decoction  brewed  by  the  Negro  out 
of  various  roots  and  herbs  which  he  had  gathered  up  in  the  woods  while 
the  rabbits  were  roasting.  Even  the  savages  were  impressed  by  the  perform- 
ance: the  boys  fingered  their  lumps  with  more  of  awe  than  of  resentment, 
and  Quassapelagh's  hard  eyes  shone. 

"If  the  English  are  not  far  distant,  I  should  like  to  have  a  look  at  them 
ere  dark,"  the  Laureate  announced.  When  Quassapelagh  replied  that  they 
were  not  above  three  miles  away,  he  repeated  his  orders  to  the  Negro, 
who,  kneeling  as  usual  at  the  sound  of  his  name,  acquiesced  tearfully  to 
the  separation. 

"If  we  find  them  to  be  pirates  or  highwaymen,  we'll  return  a  once/' 
Ebenezer  told  the  King. 

^  "The  Emperor  of  the  English  will  not  harm  you,"  Quassapelagh  said, 
"nor  need  you  fear  for  my  sons,  who  are  unknown  to  him.  But  speak  not 
the  name  of  the  Anacostin  King  to  any  man  unless  you  wish  me  dead,  and 
do  not  return  to  this  cave.  Your  kindness  to  Quassapelagh  will  not  be  for- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  309  ] 

gotten."  He  spoke  in  the  native  tongue  to  one  of  the  boys,  who  fetched 
him  a  small  leather  packet  from  the  rear  of  the  cave. 

"  Tis  a  map  of  the  Seven  Cities  he  means  to  show  us!"  Bertrand  whis- 
pered. 

"Take  these/'  said  the  King,  and  gave  to  each  of  the  men  a  small  amulet, 
carved,  it  appeared,  from  the  vertebra  of  a  relatively  large  fish— a  hollow, 
watery-white  cylinder  of  bone  perhaps  three  quarters  of  an  inch  in  width 
and  half  that  in  diameter,  with  small  projections  where  the  dorsal  and 
ventral  ribs  had  been  cut  off  and  the  near-translucence  characteristic  of  the 
bones  of  fish.  Bertrand's  face  fell.  "It  seems  a  small  repayment  for  my 
life,"  Quassapelagh  said  sternly,  "but  it  was  for  one  of  these  that  Warren 
turned  me  free." 

"This  Warren  is  a  fool,"  grumbled  Bertrand. 

The  King  ignored  him.  "Wear  it  as  a  ring  upon  your  finger,"  he  told 
Ebenezer.  "One  day  when  beath  is  very  close,  this  ring  may  turn  him 
away." 

Ebenezer  too  was  somewhat  disappointed  by  the  present,  the  rude  carv- 
ings of  which  could  not  even  be  called  decorative,  but  he  accepted  it  politely 
and,  since  the  outside  diameter  was  too  large  for  comfort,  strung  it  upon 
a  thin  rawhide  thong  and  wore  it  around  his  neck,  under  his  shirt.  Bertrand, 
on  the  other  hand,  stuffed  his  ungraciously  into  a  pocket  of  his  trousers. 
Then,,  it  being  already  late  in  the  afternoon  and  the  beach  in  shadow 
from  the  cliffs,  they  bade  warm  good-byes  to  the  big  Negro  and  Quassape- 
lagh and,  with  the  savage  boys  as  guides  ascended  to  the  forest  and  struck 
out  more  or  less  northwestward,  moving  slowly  because  of  their  bare  feet. 

"Thou'rt  not  o'erjoyed  at  traveling  to  our  countrymen,"  Ebenezer  ob- 
served to  Bertrand. 

"I'm  not  o'erjoyed  at  walking  into  a  pirates'  nest,  when  we  could  as 
lightly  search  for  golden  towns,"  the  valet  admitted.  "Nor  did  we  drive 
a  happy  bargain  with  that  salvage  king,  to  trade  Drakepecker  for  a  pair 
of  fishbones." 

"  'Twas  not  a  trade,  nor  yet  a  gift/'  the  poet  said.  "If  he  was  obliged 
to  us  for  his  life,  then  saving  ours  discharged  his  obligation." 

But  Bertrand  was  not  so  easily  mollified. 

"  'Sbody,  sir,  I  mean  nor  selfishness  nor  blasphemy,  but  'tis  precious  rare 
a  valet 'gets  to  be  a  god!  Yet  I'd  scarce  commenced  to  take  the  measure 
of  the  office,  as't  were,  and  get  the  hang  oft,  ere  ye  trade  off  my  parishioner 
for  a  pitiful  pair  of  fishbones!  I  wanted  but  another  day  or  two  to  god  it 
about,  don't  ye  know,  ere  we  turned  old  Drakepecker  loose." 


[  J1O  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Not  I,"  the  Laureate  said.  "'Tis  a  post  I  feel  well  quit  of.  We  found 
him  cast  up  helpless  from  the  sea  and  left  him  helpful  in  a  cave;  he  hath 
been  slave  to  a  god  and  now  is  servant  to  a  king.  Whither  he  goes  thence 
is  his  own  affair.  We  twain  did  well  to  start  him  on  his  journey— is  that 
not  godding  it  enough?  Besides  which/'  he  concluded,  "you  had  not  the 
chore  of  keeping  him  occupied,  as  I  did,  or  you'd  not  complain;  I  was 
pleased  to  find  that  work  to  set  him  to.  If  we  reach  our  golden  cities,  my 
own  shall  be  republican,  not  theocratic,  nor  have  I  any  wish  to  be  its  ruler. 
That  much  Drakepecker  hath  taught  me." 

Bertrand  smiled.  "Ye've  been  not  long  a  master,  thus  to  speak,  sir!  D'ye 
think  I  mean  to  fill  my  head  with  dogmas  and  decretals,  once  I'm  in  my 
temple?  That  is  the  work  of  the  lesser  fry — priests  and  clerks  and  all  that 
ilk.  A  god  doth  naught  but  sit  and  sniff  the  incense,  count  his  money, 
and  take  his  pick  o'  the  wenches." 

"Methinks  your  reign  in  Heaven  shan't  be  long,"  Ebenezer  observed. 

"Nor  doth  it  need  be,"  said  his  valet. 

After  a  while  the  woods  thinned  out,  and  to  westward,  through  the  trees, 
they  saw  a  cleared  field  of  considerable  size  in  which  grew  orderly  green 
rows  of  an  unfamiliar  broad-leaved  plant.  Ebenezer's  heart  leaped  at  the 
sight 

"Look  yonder,  Bertrand!  That  is  no  salvage  crop!"  He  laid  hold  of  one 
of  their  guides  and  pointed  to  the  field.  "What  do  you  call  that?"  he 
demanded  loudly,  as  if  to  achieve  communication  by  volume.  "What  is 
the  name  of  that?  Did  the  English  plant  that  field?" 

The  boy  caught  up  the  word  happily  and  nodded.  "English.  English." 
Then  he  launched  into  some  further  observation,  in  the  course  of  which 
Ebenezer  heard  the  word  tobacco. 

"Tobacco?"  he  inquired.  "That  is  tobacco?" 

"How  can  that  be?"  Bertrand  wondered, 

"Tis  not  so  strange,  after  all,"  said  tte  Laureate.  "Captain  Pound  was 
wont  to  sail  the  latitude  of  the  Azores,  that  ran  to  the  Virginia  Capes, 
and  any  isle  along  that  parallel  would  have  Virginia's  climate,  would  it 
not?" 

Bertrand  then  demanded  to  know  why  a  band  of  pirates  would  waste 
their  time  on  agriculture. 

"We  have  no  proof  they're  pirates,"  Ebenezer  reminded  him.  They  could 
as  well  be  sot-weed  smugglers,  of  which  Henry  Burlingame  declares  there 
are  a  great  number,  or  simply  honest  planters.  Tis  a  thing  to  hope  for 
is'tnot?" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  31 1  ] 

A  contrary  sentiment  showed  in  Bertrand's  face,  but  before  he  had  a 
chance  to  voice  it  the  two  boys  motioned  them  to  silence.  The  four  moved 
stealthily  through  a  final  grove  of  trees  to  where  the  forest  ended  at  a 
riverbank  on  the  north  and  a  roadway  paved  with  bare  logs  on  the  west. 
Sounds  of  activity  came  to  them  from  a  large  log  structure  like  a  store- 
house, obviously  the  work  of  white  men,  that  ran  from  the  roadside  back 
into  the  trees;  at  their  guide's  direction  they  crept  up  to  the  rear  wall,,  from 
which  point  of  vantage,  their  hearts  in  their  mouths,  they  could  safely  peer 
down  the  road  toward  the  river. 

"I'God!"  Ebenezer  whispered.  The  noise  they  had  heard,  a  rumbling 
and  chanting,  was  made  by  several  teams  of  three  Negroes  each,  who,  bare- 
footed and  naked  to  the  waist,  were  rolling  enormous  wooden  hogsheads 
over  the  road  down  to  a  landing  at  the  river's  edge  and  singing  as  they 
worked.  On  a  pier  that  ran  out  from  the  shore  was  a  group  of  bareheaded, 
shoeless  men  dressed  in  bleached  and  tattered  Scotch  cloth,  who  despite 
their  sunburnt  faces  and  generally  uncouth  appearance  was  plainly  of 
European  and  not  barbaric'  origin;  they  were  engaged  in  nothing  more 
strenuous  than  leaning  against  the  pilings,  smoking  pipes,  passing  round 
a  crockery  jug  (after  each  drink  from  which  they  wiped  their  mouths  on 
the  tops  of  their  hairy  forearms),  and  watching  the  Negroes  wrestle  their 
burdens  into  a  pair  of  lighters  moored  alongside.  At  sight  of  them  Ebenezer 
rejoiced,  but  more  marvelous  still—so  marvelous  that  the  beholding  of  it 
brought  tears  to  his  eyes— out  in  mid-channel  of  the  broad  river,  which 
must  have  been  nearly  two  miles  wide  at  that  point,  a  stately,  high-pooped, 
three-masted  vessel  rode  at  anchor,  loading  cargo  from  the  lighters,  and 
from  her  maintop  hung  folds  of  red,  white,  and  blue  that  could  be  no 
other  banner  but  the  King's  colors. 

"These  are  no  brigands,  but  honest  English  planters!"  Ebenezer  laughed. 
"  Tis  some  island  of  the  Indies  we  have  hit  on!"  And  for  all  the  others 
warned  him  to  be  silent,  he  cried  out  for  joy,  burst  out  onto  the  roadway, 
and  ran  whooping  and  hallooing  to  the  wharf.  The  young  savages  fled  into 
the  forest;  Bertrand,  filled  with  gloom  and  consternation,  lingered  by  the 
warehouse  wall  to  watch. 

"Countrymen!  Countrymen!"  Ebenezer  called.  The  Negroes  stopped 
their  song  and  left  their  labors  to  see  him  go  by,  and  the  white  men  too 
turned  round  in  surprise  at  the  outcry.  It  was  indeed  a  most  uncommon 
spectacle:  even  thinner  than  usual  from  the  rigors  of  his  months  on  ship- 
board, Ebenezer  bounded  down  the  log  road  like  a  shaggy  stork.  His  feet 
were  bare  and  blistered,  his  shirt  and  breeches  shred  to  rags;  bald  and  beard- 


[  312  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOIt 

less  at  the  time  of  his  abduction  from  the  Poseidon,  he  had  let  his  hair 
grow  wild  from  scalp  and  chin  alike,  so  that  now,  though  still  of  no  great 
length,  it  was  entirely  matted  and  ungroomed.  Add  to  this,  he  was  more 
sunburnt  than  the  planters  and  at  least  as  dirty,  the  very  picture  of  a  casta- 
way, and  his  haste  was  made  the  more  grotesque  by  the  way  he  clutched 
both  arms  across  his  shirt  front,  wherein  he  carried  still  the  curling  pages 
of  the  Journal. 

"Countrymen!"  he  cried  again  upon  reaching  the  landing.  "Say  some- 
thing quickly,,  that  I  may  hear  what  tongue  you  speak!" 

The  men  exchanged  glances;  some  shifted  their  positions,  and  others 
sucked  uneasily  on  their  pipes. 

"He  is  a  madman/'  one  suggested,  and  before  he  could  retreat  found 
himself  embraced. 

"Thou'rt  English!  Dear  God,  thou'rt  English!" 

"Back  off,  there!" 

Ebenezer  pointed  jubilantly  seawards.  "Where  is  that  vessel  bound,  sir, 
as  thou'rt  a  Christian  Englishman?*' 

"For  Portsmouth,  with  the  fleet " 

"Praise  Heav'n!"  He  leaped  and  clapped  his  hands  and  called  back  to 
the  warehouse,  "Bertrand!  Bertrandl  They're  honest  English  gentlemen  all! 
Hither,  Bertrand!  And  prithee,  wondrous  Englishman,"  he  said,  and  laid 
hold  of  another  planter  who,  owing  to  the  water  at  his  back,  could  not 
escape,  "what  isle  is  this  I  have  been  washed  to?  Is't  Barbados,  or  the  far 
Antilles?" 

"Thy  brains  are  pickled  with  rum/'  growled  the  planter,  shaking  free. 

'The  Bermoothes,  then!"  Ebenezer  cried.  He  fell  to  his  knees  and 
clutched  the  fellow's  trouser  legs.  "Tell  me  'tis  Corvo,  or  some  isle  I  have 
not  heard  of!" 

«/"TiS  n0t  ^  °ne  P°r  fte  other>  nor  an?  isle  else>"  ^  Pinter  said. 
"'Tis  but  poor  shitten  Maryland,  damn  your  eyes," 


18:    THE  LAUREATE  PAYS  HIS  FARE  TO  CROSS  A  RIVER 


"MARYLAND!"  EBENEZER  RELEASED  ms  VICTIM'S  TROUSERS  AND  LOOKED 
back  toward  the  woods  he'd  emerged  from,  at  the  fields  of  green  tobacco 
and  the  Negroes  grinning  broadly  beside  their  hogsheads.  His  face  lit  up. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  313  ] 

Still  kneeling,  as  though  transfixed,  he  laid  his  right  hand  over  his  heart 
and  raised  his  left  to  the  gently  rolling  hills,  behind  which  the  sun  was 
just  descending.  "Smile,  ye  gracious  hills  and  sunlit  trees!"  he  commanded. 
"Thine  own  sweet  singer,  thy  Laureate,  is  come  to  noise  thy  glory!" 

This  was  a  disembarkation-piece  he  had  composed  aboard  the  Poseidon 
some  months  before,  deeming  it  fit  that  as  Laureate  of  Maryland  he 
should  salute  his  bailiwick  poetically  upon  first  setting  foot  on  it,  and  in- 
tending also  to  leave  no  question  among  his  new  compatriots  that  he  was 
poet  to  the  bone.  He  was  therefore  not  a  little  piqued  to  see  his  initial 
public  declamation  received  with  great  hilarity  by  his  audience,  who  guf- 
fawed and  snorted,  smacked  their  thighs  and  held  their  sides,  wet  their 
noses  and  elbowed  their  neighbors,  and  pointed  horny  fingers  at  Ebenezer, 
and  broke  wind  in  their  uncouth  breeches. 

The  Laureate  let  go  his  pose,  rose  to  his  feet,  arched  his  great  blond 
eyebrows,  pursed  his  lips,  and  said,  "I'll  cast  you  no  more  pearls,,  my  friends. 
Have  a  care,  or  I'll  see  thy  masters  birch  you  one  and  all."  He  turned 
his  back  on  them  and  hurried  to  the  foot  of  the  landing,  where  Bertrand 
stood  uncomfortably  under  the  scrutiny  of  several  delighted  Negroes. 

"Put  by  your  dream  of  seven  cities,  Bertrand:  you  stand  upon  the  blessed 
soil  of  Maryland!" 

"I  heard  as  much,"  the  valet  said  sourly. 

"Is't  not  a  paradise?  Look  yonder,  how  the  sunset  fires  those  trees!" 

"Yet  your  fellow  Marylanders  would  win  no  place  at  Court,  I  think." 

"Nay,  who  shall  blame  them  for  their  disrespect?"  Ebenezer  looked  down 
at  his  own  garb  and  Bertrand's,  and  laughed.  "What  man  could  see  a 
Laureate  Poet  here?  Besides,  they're  only  simple  servants." 

"  Tis  an  idle  master  lets  'ern  drink  their  afternoons,  then,"  Bertrand 
said  skeptically.  "I  cannot  blame  Quassapelagh " 

"La!"  the  poet  warned.  "Speak  not  his  name!" 

"I  merely  meant,  I  see  his  point  of  view." 

"Only  think!"  Ebenezer  marveled.  "He  was  king  of  the  salvage  Indians 

of  Maryland!  And  Drakepecker "  He  looked  with  awe  on  the  muscular 

Negroes  and  frowned. 

Bertrand  followed  the  thought,  and  his  eyes  welled  up  with  tears.  "How 
could  that  princely  fellow  be  a  slave?  Plague  take  your  Maryland!" 

"We  must  not  judge  o'erhastily,"  Ebenezer  said,  but  he  stroked  his  beard 
reflectively. 

All  through  this  colloquy  the  idle  Englishmen  had  wheezed  and  snick- 
ered in  the  background.  One  of  their  number— a  wiry,  wrinkled  old  repro- 


[  314  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

bate  with  clipped  ears  and  a  branded  palm— now  scraped  and  bowed  his 
way  up  to  them  and  said  with  exaggerated  accent,  "Your  Grace  must 
pardon  our  rudeness.  We're  at  your  service,  m'lord." 

"Be't  so,"  Ebenezer  said  at  once,  and  giving  Bertiand  a  knowing  look 
he  stepped  out  on  the  pier  to  address  the  group.  "Know,  my  good  men, 
that  rude  and  tattered  though  I  appear,  I  am  Ebenezer  Cooke,  appointed 
by  the  Lord  Proprietary  to  the  office  of  Poet  and  Laureate  of  the  Province 
of  Maryland;  I  and  my  man  have  suffered  imprisonment  at  the  hands  of 
pirates  and  narrowly  escaped  a  watery  grave.  I  shall  not  this  time  report 
your  conduct  to  your  masters,  but  do  henceforth  show  more  respect,  if  not 
for  me,  at  least  for  Poetry!" 

This  speech  they  greeted  with  applause  and  raucous  cheers,  which,  taking 
them  as  a  sign  of  gratitude  for  his  leniency,  elicited  from  the  Laureate  a 
benign  smile. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "I  know  not  where  in  Maryland  I  stand,  but  I  must  go 
at  once  to  Maiden,  my  plantation  on  Choptank  River.  I  shall  require  both 
transportation  and  direction,  for  I  know  naught  of  the  Province.  You,  my 
man,"  he  went  on,  addressing  the  old  man  with  the  branded  palm  who 
had  spoken  previously.  "Will  you  lead  me  thither?  I'm  certain  your  master 
shan't  object,  when  he  learns  the  office  of  your  passenger." 

"Aye,  now,  that's  certain!"  the  fellow  answered,  with  a  glance  at  his 
companions.  "But  say,  now,  Master  Poet,  how  will  ye  pay  me  for  my  labor? 
For  we  must  paddle  o'er  this  river  here,  and  there's  nothing  floats  like 
gold." 

Ebenezer  hid  his  discomfort  behind  an  even  haughtier  mien.  "As't  hap- 
pens, my  man,  what  gold  I  have  is  not  upon  my  person.  In  any  case,  I 
daresay  your  master  would  forbid  you  to  take  money  in  such  a  worthy 
service." 

"HI  take  my  chances  there,"  the  old  man  said.  "If  ye  cannot  pay  me, 
ye'll  cross  as  best  ye  can.  Is't  possible  so  great  a  man  hath  not  a  ring  or 
other  kind  of  valuable?" 

"Ye  may  have  mine/'  growled  Bertrand.  "Tis  a  bona  fide  salvage  relic, 
that  I  hear  is  worth  a  fortune."  He  reached  into  his  breeches  pocket.  "Hi, 
there,  Fve  lost  it  through  a  hole " 

"Out  on't!"  Ebenezer  cried,  losing  patience  with  the  Marylander.  "Not 
for  nothing  am  I  Laureate  of  this  Province!  Ferry  me  across,  fellow,  and 
you  shall  be  rewarded  with  the  finest  gold  e'er  mined:  the  pure  coin  of 
poetry!" 

The  old  man  cocked  his  head  as  though  impressed.  "Coin  o'  poetry,  is 
it?  Ye  mean  ye'll  say  me  a  verse  for  paddling  across  the  river?" 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  315  ] 

"Recite?"  Ebenezer  scoffed.  "Nay,  man,  I  shan't  recite;  I  shall  compose! 
I  shall  extemporize!  Your  gold  will  not  be  soiled  from  many  hands  but 
be  struck  gleaming  from  the  mint  before  your  eyes!" 

The  man  scratched  one  clipped  ear.  "Well,  I  don't  know.  I  ne'er  heard 
tell  of  business  done  like  that." 

"Tut,"  Ebenezer  reassured  him.  "  Tis  done  from  day  to  day  in  Europe, 
and  for  weightier  matters  than  a  pitiful  ferry  ride.  Doth  not  Cervantes  tell 
us  of  a  poet  in  Spain  that  hired  himself  a  harlot  for  three  hundred  sonnets 
on  the  theme  of  Pyramus  and  Thisbe?" 

"Ye  do  not  tell  me!"  marveled  the  ferryman.  "Three  hundred  sonnets! 
And  what,  pray,  might  a  sonnet  be?" 

Ebenezer  smiled  at  the  fellow's  ignorance.  "  'Tis  a  verse-form." 

"A  verse-form,  now!" 

"Aye.  We  poets  do  not  merely  make  poems;  we  make  certain  sorts  of 
poems.  Just  as  in  coins  you  have  farthings  and  pence  and  shillings  and 
crowns,  in  verse  you  have  quatrains  and  sonnets  and  villanelles  and  ron- 
delays." 

"Aha!"  said  the  ferryman.  "And  this  sonnet,  then,  is  like  a  shilling?  Or 
a  half  crown?  For  I  shall  ask  a  crown  to  paddle  ye  o'er  this  river." 

"A  crown!"  the  poet  cried. 

"No  less,  Your  Excellency—the  currents  and  tides,  ye  know,  this  time 
of  year." 

Ebenezer  looked  skeptically  at  the  placid  river. 

"He  is  a  rogue  and  very  Jew,"  Bertrand  said. 

"Ah  well,  no  matter,,  Bertrand."  Ebenezer  winked  at  his  valet  and  turned 
again  to  the  Marylander.  "But  see  here,  my  man,  you  must  know  a  sonnet's 
worth  a  half  pound  sterling  on  the  current  London  market." 

"Spare  me  the  last  line  oft  then,"  said  the  ferryman,  "for  I  shan't  give 
change." 

"Done."  To  the  bystanders,  who  had  watched  the  bargaining  with  amuse- 
ment, he  said,  "Witness  that  this  fellow  hath  agreed,  on  consideration  of 
one  sonnet,  not  including  the  final  line,  to  ferry  Ebenezer  Cooke,  Poet  and 

Laureate  of  Maryland,  and  his  man  across  the I  say,  what  do  you  call 

this  river?" 

"The  Choptank/'  Ebenezer's  boatman  answered  quickly. 

"You  don't  say!  Then  Maiden  must  be  near  at  hand!" 

"Aye,"  the  old  man  vowed.  "  Tis  just  through  yonder  woods.  Ye  can 
walk  there  lightly  once  ye  cross  this  river." 

"Excellent!  Done,  then?" 


[  316  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Done,  Your  Highness,  done!' '  He  held  up  an  unclean  finger.  "But  I 
shall  want  my  payment  in  advance."  , 

"Ah,  come  now!"  Ebenezer  protested. 

"What  doth  it  matter?"  whispered  Bertrand. 

"What  warrant  have  I  thou'rt  a  poet  at  all?"  the  man  insisted.  "Pay  me 
now,  or  no  feny  ride." 

Ebenezer  sighed.  "So  be't."  And  to  the  group:  "A  silence,  now,  an  it 
please  you." 

Then,  pressing  a  finger  to  his  temple  and  squinting  both  his  eyes,  he 
struck  an  attitude  of  composition,  and  after  a  moment  declaimed: 

"Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnight  born 
In  Stygian  cave  forlorn 

'Mongst  horrid  shapes,  and  shrieks,  and  sights  unholy! 
Find  out  some  uncouth  cell, 

Where  brooding  Darkness  spreads  his  jealous  wings, 
And  the  night-Raven  sings; 

There,  under  Ebon  shades,  and  low-browed  Rocks, 
As  ragged  as  thy  Locks, 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell" 

There  was  some  moments'  silence. 

"Well,  come,  my  man!"  the  poet  urged.  "You  have  your  fare!" 

"What?  Is  that  a  sonnet?" 

'On  my  honor,"  Ebenezer  assured  him.  "Minus  the  final  line,  to  be 

. 


sure 


"To  be  sure,  to  be  sure."  The  boatman  tugged  at  his  mutilated  ear. 
"So  that  is  my  half-pound  sonnet!  A  great  ugly  one  'twas,  at  that,  with 
all  those  shrieks  and  hollowings  in't." 

"What  matter?  Would  you  lift  your  nose  at  a  gold  piece  if  the  King  had 
an  ugly  head?  A  sonnet's  a  sonnet." 

"Aye,  aye,  'tis  the  truth,"  sighed  the  ferryman,  and  shook  his  head  as 
though  outwitted.  "Very  well,  then;  yonder's  my  canoe." 

"Let's  be  off,"  said  the  poet,  and  took  his  valet's  arm  triumphantly. 

But  when  he  saw  the  vessel  they  were  to  cross  in,  he  came  near  to  letting 
his  ferryman  keep  the  sonnet  gratis.  "Had  I  guessed  this  swine  trough  was 
to  be  our  boat,  I'd  have  kept  the  dark  Gimmerian  desert  in  rty  purse  " 

"Complain  no  more,"  the  boatman  answered.  "Had  I  but  known  whrt 
a  grubby  pittance  was  your  sonnet,  ye'd  have  swum  for  all  o'  me." 

Thus  understanding  each  other,  ferryman  and  passengers  climbed  cau- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  Jiy  ] 

tiously  aboard  the  dugout  canoe  and  proceeded  out  onto  the  river,  which 
lay  as  smooth  as  any  looking  glass.  When  well  past  mid-channel  they  found 
the  surface  still  unrippled,  the  passengers  began  to  suspect  that  the  difficulty 
of  the  crossing  had  been  exaggerated. 

"I  say,"  asked  Bertrand  from  the  bow,  "where  are  those  wicked  tides  and 
currents,  that  made  this  trip  so  dear?" 

"Nowhere  save  in  my  fancy,"  said  the  ferryman  with  a  grin.  "Since  ye 
were  paying  your  passage  with  a  poem,  I  had  as  well  demand  a  big  one- 
it  cost  ye  no  more." 

"Oho!"  cried  Ebenezer.  "So  you  deceived  me!  Well,  think  not  thou'rt 
aught  the  richer  for't,  my  fellow,  for  the  sonnet  was  not  mine:  I  had  it 
from  one  whose  talent  equals  my  own " 

But  the  boatman  was  not  a  whit  put  out  by  this  disclosure.  "Last  year's 
gold  is  as  good  as  this  year's,"  he  declared,  "and  one  man's  as  good  as 
another's.  Though  ye  did  play  false  upon  your  pledge,  I'm  nowise  poorer 
for't.  A  ha'  pound's  a  ha'  pound,  and  a  sonnet's  a  sonnet,"  Just  then  the 
canoe  touched  the  opposite  shore  of  the  river.  "Here  ye  be,  Master  Poet, 
and  the  joke's  on  you." 

"Blackguard!"  grumbled  Bertrand. 

Ebenezer  smiled.  "As  you  will,  sir;  as  you  will."  He  stepped  ashore  with 
Bertrand  and  waited  until  the  ferryman  pushed  back  onto  the  river;  then 
he  laughed  and  called  to  him:  "Yet  the  truth  is,  Master  Numskull,  you 
sit  fleeced  from  nape  to  shank!  Not  only  is  your  sonnet  not  my  doing; 
'tis  not  even  a  sonnet!  Good  day,  sir!"  He  made  ready  to  flee  through  the 
woods  to  Maiden  should  the  ferryman  pursue  them,  but  that  gentleman 
merely  clucked  his  tongue,  between  strokes  of  his  paddle. 

"No  matter,  Master  Madman,"  he  called  back.  "  Tis  not  the  Choptank 
River,  either.  Good  night,  sir!" 


19:    THE  LAUREATE  ATTENDS  A  SWINE-MAIDEN'S 
TALE 


UPON  REALIZING  THAT  THE  FERRYMAN  HAD  MAROONED  HIM  IN  HE  KNEW 

not  what  wild  woods,  Ebenezer  set  up  a  considerable  hallooing  and  crying, 
hoping  thereby  to  attract  someone  from  the  opposite  shore  to  rescue  him; 
but  the  men  in  Scotch  cloth  were  evidently  in  on  the  prank,  for  they 


[  318  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

turned  away  and  left  the  hapless  pair  to  their  own  devices.  Already  the 
light  was  failing:  at  length  he  left  off  his  calling  and  surveyed  the  woods 
around  them,  which  grew  more  shadowy  by  the  minute. 

"Only  think  on't!"  he  said.  "Twas  Maryland  all  along!" 

Bertrand  kicked  disconsolately  at  a  tree  stump.  "More's  the  pity,  says  I. 
Your  Maryland  hath  not  even  civil  citizens/7 

"Ah,  friend,  your  heart  was  set  on  a  golden  city,  and  Maryland  hath 
none.  But  Gold  is  where  you  find  it,  is't  not?  What  treasure  is  more  valuable 
than  this,  to  reach  unscathed  our  journey's  end?" 

"I  would  Fd  stayed  with  Drakepecker  on  the  beach/'  the  valet  said. 
"What  good  hath  come  since  we  discovered  where  we  are?  Who  knows 
what  beasts  we'll  find  in  yonder  shadows?  Or  salvages,  that  rightly  hate 
an  English  face?" 

"And  yet,  'tis  Maryland!"  Ebenezer  sighed  happily.  "Who  knows  but 
what  my  father,  and  his  father,  have  crossed  this  selfsame  river  and  seen 
those  selfsame  trees?  Think  on't,  man:  we  are  not  far  from  Maiden!" 

"And  is  that  such  a  joyous  thought,  sir,,  when  for  aught  we  know  'tis 
no  more  your  estate?" 

Ebenezer's  face  fell.  "I'faith,  I  had  forgot  your  wager!"  At  thought  of 
it  he  joined  his  valet's  gloom  and  sat  at  the  foot  of  a  nearby  birch.  "We 
dare  not  try  these  woods  tonight,  at  any  rate.  Build  up  a  fire,  and  we'll 
find  our  way  at  dawn." 

"Twill  draw  the  Indians,  will  it  not?"  Bertrand  asked. 

"It  might,"  the  poet  said  glumly.  "On  the  other  hand,  'twill  keep  away 
the  beasts.  Do  as  you  please." 

Indeed,  even  as  Bertrand  commenced  striking  on  the  flint  from  his  tin- 
derbox— in  which  also  he  had  brought  from  the  beach  a  small  supply  of 
dried  sea-grass  for  tinder— the  two  men  heard  the  grunt  of  an  animal 
somewhere  among  the  trees  not  many  yards  upstream. 

"Hark!"  Goose  flesh  pimpled  the  Laureate's  arms,  and  he  jumped  to 
his  feet.  "Make  haste  there  with  the  fire!" 

The  grunt  sounded  again,  accompanied  by  a  rustling  of  leaves;  a  moment 
later  another  answered  from  farther  away,  and  then  another  and  another,, 
until  the  wood  was  filled  with  the  sound  of  beasts,  advancing  in  their 
direction.  While  Bertrand  struck  furiously  at  the  flint,  Ebenezer  called 
once  more  across  the  river  for  help,  but  there  was  no  one  to  hear. 

"A  spark!  I  have  a  spark!"  cried  Bertrand,  and  cupped  the  tinder  in  his 
hands  to  blow  up  a  flame.  "Make  ready  the  kindling  wood!"  ' 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  319  ] 

"  'Sheart,  we've  not  got  any!"  The  sound  was  almost  upon  them  now. 
"Run  for  the  river!" 

Bertrand  dropped  the  seaweed,  and  they  raced  headlong  into  the  shal- 
lows; nor  had  they  got  knee-deep  before  they  heard  the  animals  burst  out 
of  the  woods  behind  them  and  squeal  and  snuffle  on  the  muddy  shore. 

"You  there!"  cried  a  woman's  voice.  "Are  ye  mad  or  merely  drunken?" 

"Marry!"  said  Bertrand.  "  Tis  a  woman!" 

They  turned  round  in  surprise  and  in  the  last  light  saw  standing  on  the 
mud  bank  a  disheveled  woman  of  uncertain  age,  dressed,  like  the  men  on 
the  landing,  in  bleached  and  tattered  Scotch  cloth  and  carrying  a  stick 
with  which  she  drove  a  number  of  swine.  These  latter  grumped  and  rooted 
along  the  shore,  pausing  often  to  regard  the  two  men  balefully. 

"Dear  Heav'n,  the  jest's  on  us!"  the  poet  called  back,  and  did  his  best 
to  laugh.  "My  man  and  I  are  strangers  to  the  Province,  and  were  left 
stranded  here  by  some  dolt  for  a  prank!" 

"Come  hither,  then,"  the  woman  said.  "These  swine  shan't  eat  ye."  To 
reassure  them  she  drove  the  nearest  hog  off  with  her  stick,  and  the  two 
men  waded  ^horewards. 

"I  thank  you  for  your  kindness,"  Ebenezer  said;  "haply  'tis  in  your  power 
to  do  me  yet  another,  for  I  need  a  lodging  for  the  night.  My  name  is 
Ebenezer  Cooke,  Poet  and  Laureate  of  the  Province  of  Maryland,  and 
I— nay,  madam,  fear  not  for  your  modesty!"  The  woman  had  gasped  and 
turned  away  as  they  approached.  "Our  clothes  are  wet  and  ragged,  but 
they  cover  us  yet!"  Ebenezer  prattled  on.  "In  sootk  I'm  not  the  picture 
of  a  laureate  poet,  I  know  well;  'tis  owing  to  the  many  trials  I've  been 
through,  the  like  of  which  you'd  ne'er  believe  if  I  should  tell  you.  Kidnaped 
by  pirates  and  thrown  overboard  to  die!  But  once  I  reach  my  manor  on 
the  Choptank— i'God/" 

The  woman  had  turned  in  his  direction  and  raised  her  head.  Her  black 
hair  showed  no  signs  of  soap  or  comb,  nor  had  she  plagued  her  skin  over- 
much with  scrubbing.  But  what  caused  Ebenezer  to  break  off  in  mid- 
sentence  was  the  fact  that  except  for  her  slovenliness  and  the  open  sores 
that  even  in  the  shadow  were  conspicuous  on  her  face  and  arms,  the  swine- 
maiden  could  have  passed  for  the  girl  in  the  Cyprian's  rigging;  and  but 
for  a  decade's  difference  in  their  apparent  ages,  she  bore  a  certain  resem- 
blance to  the  youthful  whore  Joan  Toast. 

"Am  I  such  a  sight  as  that?"  the  woman  asked  harshly. 

"Nay,  nay,  forgive  me!"  Ebenezer  begged.  "  'Tis  quite  the  contrary:  you 
look  in  some  ways  like  a  girl  I  knew  in  London— how  long  since!" 


[  320  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Ye  do  not  tell  me!  Had  this  wench  my  lovely  clothes  and  fine  com- 
plexion, and  did  ye  show  a  nice  concern  for  her  maidenhead?" 

"Ah,  prithee,  speak  less  sourly!"  the  Laureate  said.  "If  I  said  aught  to  hurt 
thee,  I  swear  'twas  not  intended!" 

The  maid  turned  sullenly  away.  "My  master's  house  lies  just  round  yon- 
der point,  a  mile  or  two.  Ye  can  bed  there  if  yeVe  a  mind  to."  Without 
waiting  for  reply  she  smote  the  nearest  hog  upon  its  ham-butt  with  her 
stick  to  start  it  moving,  and  the  procession  grunted  upstream  toward  the 
point. 

"She  bears  some  likeness  to  Joan  Toast,"  Ebenezer  whispered  to  Ber- 
trand. 

"As  doth  a  bat  to  a  butterfly,"  the  valet  replied  contemptuously,  "that 
make  their  way  through  the  world  by  the  selfsame  means." 

"Ah,  now,"  the  poet  protested,  and  the  memory  of  his  adventure  on  the 
Cyprian  made  him  dizzy;  "she's  but  a  swineherd  and  unclean,  yet  she 
hath  a  certain  air .  .  ." 

"  Tis  that  she's  windward  of  us,  if  ye  should  ask  me." 

But  Ebenezer  would  not  be  discouraged;  he  caught  up  to  the  woman 
and  asked  her  name. 

"Why,  'tis  Susan  Warren,  sir,"  she  said  uncordially.  "I  suppose  ye  want 
to  hire  me  for  your  whore?" 

"Dear  Heavens,  no!  Twas  but  an  idle  pleasantry,  I  swear!  D'you  think 
a  laureate  poet  plays  with  whores?" 

For  answer,  Susan  Warren  only  sniffed. 

"Who  is  your  master,  then?"  Ebenezer  demanded,  somewhat  less  gently. 
"  'Twill  be  surpassing  pleasant  to  meet  a  proper  gentleman,  for  I've  met 
no  Marylander  yet  who  was  not  either  a  rogue  or  a  simpleton.  Yet  Lord 
Baltimore,  when  he  wrote  out  my  commission,  made  much  of  the  manners 
and  good  breeding  in  his  Province  and  charged  me  to  write  of  them." 

Instead  of  answering,  the  swine-maiden,  to  Ebenezer's  considerable  sur- 
prise, began  to  weep. 

"Why,  what  is  this?  Said  I  aught  to  affront  you?" 

The  procession  halted,  and  Bertrand  came  up  chuckling  from  behind. 
"  Tis  that  the  lady  hath  tender  feelings,  sir.  'Twas  boorish  of  ye  not  to 
hire  her  services." 

"Enough!"  the  poet  commanded,  and  said  to  Susan  Warren,  "'Tis  not 
my  wont  to  traffic  in  harlotry,  ma'am;  forgive  me  if  I  gave  you  to  think 
otherwise." 

"'Tis  none  o'  your  doing,  sir,"  the  woman  replied,  and  resumed  her 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  321  ] 

pace  along  the  path.  "The  truth  is  that  my  master's  such  a  rascal,  and  uses 
me  so  ill,  e'en  to  think  on't  brings  the  tears." 

"And  how  is  that?  Doth  he  beat  you,  then?" 

She  shook  her  head  and  sniffed.  "If  'twere  but  a  birching  now  and  again 
I'd  not  complain.  The  rod's  but  one  among  my  grievances,  nor  yet  a  very 
great  one." 

"He  doth  worse,  then?"  Ebenezer  exclaimed. 

"Ffaith,  he  must  be  hard  pressed  for  diversion,"  said  the  valet,  and  drew 
a  stern  look  from  his  master. 

Susan  Warren  permitted  herself  another  round  of  wails  and  tears,  after 
which,  heaving  a  sigh  to  Heaven  and  kicking  in  the  bacon  a  pig  that  stopped 
before  her  to  make  water  in  the  path,  she  poured  out  to  the  Laureate  the 
whole  tale  of  her  tribulations,  as  follows: 

"I  was  bom  Susan  Smith,"  she  said,  "and  my  mother  died  a-bearing  me, 
My  father  had  a  small  shop  in  London,  near  Puddle  Dock,  where  he 
coopered  casks  and  barrels  for  the  ships.  One  day  when  I  was  eighteen 
and  pretty  as  ye  please,  I  took  a  stroll  down  Blackfriars  o'er  to  Ludgate, 
and  was  bowed  to  by  a  handsome  wight  that  called  me  Miss  Williams, 
and  asked  to  walk  along  with  me.  Te  may  not  do't,'  I  told  him,  'nor  is 
my  name  Miss  Williams/  'How's  this?'  he  cried.  "Thou'rt  not  Miss  Eliza- 
beth Williams  from  Gracechurch  Street?'  1  am  not/  said  I.  'Then  pardon 
me/  said  he,  'thou'rt  like  as  twins/ 

"  Twas  clear  to  me  the  lad  spoke  truly,  for  he  was  a  civil  gentleman  and 
blushed  at  his  mistake,  He  said  he  was  in  love  with  this  Miss  Williams,  but 
for  all  she  said  she  loved  him  she'd  have  none  o'  him  for  her  husband,  and 
spoke  of  some  great  sin  that  damned  her  soul.  Yet  this  Humphrey  Warren 
(that  was  his  name)  declared  he'd  have  her  to  wife  with  all  the  sins  o' 
man  upon  her  conscience. 

"I  saw  poor  Humphrey  often  then  by  Ludgate,  for  Miss  Williams  grew 
less  ardent  day  by  day;  he  told  me  all  his  trials  on  her  account,  and  said  we 
looked  so  much  alike,  'twas  as  if  he  spoke  to  her  instead  of  me.  For  my  part, 
I  envied  this  Miss  Williams  not  a  little,  and  thought  her  a  great  fool  to 
scorn  so  fine  a  gentleman.  Dear  Humphrey  was  not  rich,  but  he  held  a 
decent  post  in  the  firm  of  a  Captain  Mitchell,  that  was  Miss  Williams' 
older  half  brother,,  and  had  every  other  virtue  that  could  please  a  woman's 
heart. 

"Then  one  day  Humphrey  came  to  Father's  shop  near  Puddle  Dock, 
weeping  fit  to  die,  and  said  Miss  Williams  had  done  herself  to  death  with 


[  522  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

poison!  I  took  pity  on  the  man,  albeit  at  heart  I  had  none  for  Miss  Williams, 
and  rejoiced  when  Humphrey  came  to  see  me  every  day.  At  length  he  said, 
'Dear  Susan,  thy  likeness  to  Elizabeth  is  my  curse  and  my  salvation!  I  weep 
to  see  ye,  thinking  of  her  dead;  yet  I  cannot  think  her  gone,  with  her  living 
image  every  day  before  me/  And  I  said,  'I  could  wish,  sir,  ye  saw  somewhat 
beyond  that  likeness/ 

"This  gave  him  pause,  and  anon  he  went  to  Father,  and  we  two  were 
wed.  Yet  for  all  I  strove  to  win  my  Humphrey's  love,  I  saw  'twas  but  the 
image  of  Miss  Williams  he  made  love  to.  One  night  when  he  lay  sleeping 
fast  I  kissed  him,  and  in  his  sleep  he  said,  'God  save  ye,  sweet  Elizabeth!' 
Fool  that  I  was,  I  woke  him  on  the  instant,  and  made  him  choose  betwixt 
the  two  of  us.  'Elizabeth  is  dead,'  I  said,  'and  I'm  alive.  Do  ye  love  me, 
love  myself  and  not  my  likeness,  else  I  shan't  stay  in  this  bed  another 
moment!' 

"Ah,  God!  Had  I  been  but  ten  years  older,  or  one  groatsworth  wiser,  I'd 
have  held  my  tongue!  What  matter  what  he  called  me,  so  he  loved  me? 
Why,  didn't  he  call  me  Honey  and  Sweetheart  and  a  flock  of  names  besides, 
as  well  as  Susan?  I  cursed  my  speech  the  moment  'twas  spoke,  but  the  hurt 
was  done.  'Dear  Susan!'  Humphrey  cried.  'Why  did  ye  that?  Would  God 
ye  had  not  asked  me  to  choose!' 

"All  for  naught  then  my  begging  and  weeping;  he'd  not  let  me  put  by  my 
words,  but  he  must  choose.  And  choose  he  did,  though  not  a  word  he  said 
oft;  for  next  morn  he  was  too  ill  to  rise,  and  died  not  four  days  after.  Thus 
was  I  widowed  at  nineteen  years.  .  .  . 

"My  father  had  grave  troubles  of  his  own,  for  his  trade  was  poor,  and 
Humphrey's  niggard  funeral  took  his  savings.  He  went  into  debt  to  pay  for 
food  and  stock,  and  just  when  the  lot  was  gone,  and  the  creditors  were 
hounding  at  our  door,  a  man  came  in  to  order  casks  for's  vessel,  which  he 
said  was  bound  for  Maryland  at  month's  end.  So  pleased  was  Father  to 
get  the  work,  he  bade  me  brew  the  man  some  tea.  But  at  sight  o'  me  the 
wight  turned  pale  and  wept,  for  all  he  was  a  burly  bearded  sailor! 

"  What  is't?'  said  I,  that  had  been  like  to  die  of  grief  myself  those  many 
weeks.  The  captain  begged  forgiveness  and  said  'twas  my  likeness  to  his 
dear  dead  sister  caused  his  tears.  In  short,  we  learned  he  was  Captain 
William  Mitchell  of  Gracechurch  Street,  the  same  that  was  half  brother  to 
Elizabeth  and  my  Humphrey's  late  employer.  Had  I  but  known  then  what 
vipers  hid  behind  that  kindly  face,  I  had  turned  him  out  and  bolted  fast 
the  door!  But  instead  we  wept  together:  I  for  my  Humphrey,  Captain 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  323  ] 

Mitchell  for  his  sister,  and  father  for  the  miseries  of  this  life,  wherein  we 
lose  the  ones  we  love  and  cannot  even  mourn  them  fitly,  for  grubbing  to 
feed  the  living." 

Here  Susan  had  to  interrupt  her  narrative  for  some  moments  to  give 
expression  to  ,her  grief.  Tears  ran  as  well  down  Ebenezer's  face,  and  even 
Bertrand  was  no  longer  hostile,  but  sighed  in  sympathy. 

"Captain  Mitchell  then  came  oft  to  visit  us/'  she  went  on,  "and  father 
and  I  being  innocent  of  the  World's  wickedness,  we  took  him  to  our  hearts. 
We  had  no  secret  he  was  not  made  privy  to,  though  he  gave  us  to  know 
little  of  himself.  Yet  we  guessed  that  he  was  rich,  for  he  spoke  of  carrying 
twenty  servants  to  Maryland,  whither  he  sailed  to  take  some  fine  post  in 
the  government. 

"Then  when  the  coopering  was  done  and  all  the  casks  hauled  over  to 
the  dock,  Captain  Mitchell  made  my  father  a  strange  proposal:  he  would 
pay  off  Father's  debts  and  leave  him  unencumbered  for  good  and  all,  if  I 
would  sail  to  Maryland  with  Mrs.  Mitchell  and  himself.  He  would  treat  me 
as  his  own  dear  sister,  he  declared;  nay,  more— 'twas  just  that  likeness  had 
resolved  him,  and  he  meant  to  call  me  Elizabeth  Williams.  I  was  to  be  a 
sister  to  him,  and  companion  to  his  ailing  wife  .  .  . 

"My  father  wept  and  thanked  him  for  his  kindness,  but  said  he  could 
not  live  if  I  were  gone,  whereupon  Captain  Mitchell  proposed  at  once  that 
he  sell  the  shop— lock,  stock,  and  barrels— and  start  a  new  life  in  America. 
Naught  would  do  then  but  we  fetch  our  books  and  ledgers,  almost  a-swoon 
with  joy  and  gratitude,  and  he  paid  our  creditors  in  cash.  'Surely  there's 
some  condition  to  this  kindness!'  Father  cried,  and  Captain  Mitchell  said, 
'No  more  than  what  I  stated:  Miss  Warren  is  now  my  sister/ 

"Thus  was  the  business  done,  with  my  consent.  That  night,  when  things 
were  calm  again,  I  felt  odd  at  being  Elizabeth  Williams,  that  I  had  envied 
and  despised,  and  wondered  if  I'd  spoken  in  too  great  haste.  Yet  'twas  a 
kind  of  pleasure  too,  inasmuch  as  Humphrey  had  loved  Elizabeth  all  in 
vain  and  now  would  have  his  love  returned  tenfold! 

"On  shipboard  I  was  placed  in  Mrs.  Mitchell's  room,  while  Father  was 
placed  with  Captain  Mitchell's  servants  in  the  'tween  decks.  Mrs.  Mitchell 
was  bedridden  with  some  strange  malady,  but  she  was  sweet  to  me.  She 
called  me  Elizabeth,  and  bade  me  do  whatever  her  husband  asked,  because 
he  was  a  great  good  man  that  she  could  not  live  without.  Two  times  a 
day  I  gave  her  medicine  in  little  phials  that  Captain  Mitchell  took  from  a 
wooden  qhest:  if  I  was  late  'twould  drive  her  almost  mad,  but  once  she  had 


[  224]  THE  Sdt-WEED  FACTOR 

her  phial,  she'd  off  to  sleep  at  once.  Captain  Mitchell  had  a  great  many  of 
these  phials,  and  one  morning  he  bade  me  take  one  lest  I  get  seasick. 

"  Thankee,'  said  I,  'but  we're  eight  days  out  and  I've  not  been  seasick 
yet/  Captain  Mitchell  then  came  near  and  put  his  arm  about  my  waist, 
right  before  Mrs.  Mitchell's  eyes,  and  said,  'Sister,  ye  must  do  as  your 
brother  says.'  And  Mrs.  Mitchell  cried,  'Aye,  aye,  Elizabeth,  do  as  your 
brother  says!' 

"He  gave  a  phial  to  me  then,  and  to  pacify  them  both  I  did  as  he  bade 
me,  and  chewed  the  brown  gum  inside.  Ah  Christ,  that  the  first  bitter  taste 
had  killed  me!  Twas  no  medicine  I  took  at  all,  but  itself  a  malady  worse 
than  death:  'twas  opium  I  ate,  sirs,  all  innocently  that  day!" 

'"Sheart!"  cried  Bertiand. 

'The  wretch!"  cried  Ebenezer. 

44  Twas  opium  kept  Mrs.  Mitchell  to  her  bed  and  drove  her  mad  when 
'twas  lacking!  Twas  opium  led  to  my  downfall,  and  my  father's,  and 
brought  me  to  this  state  ye  see:  a  filthy  trollop  driving  swine!  God  curse 
the  hand  that  raised  the  poppy  that  made  the  opium  I  ate  that  day!  Yet  I 
thought  'twas  simple  medicine,  belike  a  soporific,  and  bitter  as  it  was,  I  ate 
it  all.  Straightway  I  drowsed  upon  my  feet,  and  the  room  changed  sizes; 
I  was  on  the  bed  with  Mrs.  Mitchell,  that  grasped  me  by  the  hand,  and  the 
Captain  leaning  o'er  the  twain  of  us.  His  head  had  got  huge;  his  eyes  were 
afire.  'Sister  Elizabeth!  Sister  Elizabeth!'  he  said.  .  .  . 

"In  my  dream  I  rose  up  high  o'er  the  ship,  hand  in  hand  with  Mrs. 
Mitchell  The  sky  was  blue  as  sapphire,  and  the  sea  beneath  us  looked  like 
fine  black  crepe.  The  ship  was  a  wee  thing,  clear  and  bright,  and  straight 
on  the  horizon  was  the  sun.  Then  the  sun  was  the  eye  of  a  man,  and  Mrs. 
Mitchell  said,  Tookee  yonder,  Elizabeth:  that  man  is  Christ  Almighty, 
and  ye  must  do  what  he  says,  as  thou'rt  a  proper  Catholic  girl.'  We  went 
up  near  to  Christ's  great  eye,  and  when  He  looked  to  us  we  stood  naked 
for  his  judgment. 

"'Sister  Elizabeth/  he  said  to  me,  'I  shall  soon  choose  ye  for  a  mighty 
work.  I  mean  to  get  a  child  on  ye,  as  my  Father  did  on  Mary!'  I  saw  myself 
next  in  the  habit  of  a  nun,  and  Mrs.  Mitchell  called  me  Sister  Elizabeth, 
the  bride  o'  Christ.  Then  Christ's  voice  came  like  a  great  warm  wind  be- 
hind me,  calling,  'Sister!  Sister!  Sister!'  and  while  that  Mrs.  Mitchell  held 
me,  I  was  swived. 

"  Twas  all  clear  when  I  woke,  for  the  face  o'  Jesus  was  Captain  Mitchell's 
face:  I  saw  why  Elizabeth  had  turned  in  shame  from  Humphrey  and  killed 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  t  325  I 

herself  with  poison;  I  saw  why  Captain  Mitchell  called  me  his  sister,  in  his 
awful  wickedness,  and  why  Mrs.  Mitchell  had  to  help  him  in  his  sin.  From 
that  day  I  was  lost,  and  Captain  Mitchell  hid  no  longer  his  real  nature. 
Again  and  again  they  forced  the  drug  upon  me,  till  I  was  dreaming 
half  the  day  of  Christ  my  lover.  The  craving  got  such  hold  on  me,  I'd  have 
killed  any  man  to  get  my  phial.  Five  pounds  apiece  he  set  his  fee,  till  I  had 
borrowed  from  my  father  all  the  money  Captain  Mitchell  had  given  him, 
and  the  poor  man  went  to  Maryland  a  pauper.  After  that  there  was  naught 
for't  but  to  sell  my  services  for  the  future,  a  month  of  bondage  for  every 
phial:  I  signed  a  blank  indenture-bond  for  Captain  Mitchell  to  count  the 
months  on,  and  knew  I  was  his  slave  and  whore  for  life. 

"All  through  this  time  I'd  not  seen  father  once,  nor  did  I  wish  to. 
Captain  Mitchell  told  him  I  was  ill  and  that  the  money  was  for  medicine. 
When  all  was  gone  the  poor  man  near  lost  his  mind;  he  begged  for  more 
money,  but  Captain  Mitchell  bade  him  indent  himself  to  the  captain  of 
the  ship,  who  then  would  sell  the  indenture-bond  in  port.  My  father  sold 
himself  at  first  for  two  years,  then  for  four,  and  all  the  money  went  to 
Captain  Mitchell  for  my  medicine, 

"One  day  near  the  end  o'  the  passage  Captain  Mitchell  gave  his  wife 
two  phials  instead  of  one,  and  two  more  after  that,  until  she  died  before 
my  eyes.  Inasmuch  as  we  had  no  physician,  and  everyone  knew  of  the  lady's 
illness,  she  was  buried  at  sea  and  no  questions  asked.  When  we  raised  St. 
Mary's  City,  Father's  bond  was  sold  to  a  Mr.  Spurdance  on  the  Eastern 
Shore,  and  'tis  the  last  I've  seen  o'  him  these  five  years.  Captain  Mitchell 
moved  into  a  fine  large  house  in  St.  Mary's,  and  no  longer  did  I  pose  as 
Elizabeth  Williams  (save  in  bed),  but  was  Susan  Warren,  his  indentured 
servant. 

"I  was  wont  to  say  to  myself  'St.  Mary's  City,  St.  Mary's  City,'  and  in  my 
opium  dreams  it  was  St.  Susan's  City,  that  I  ruled  over,  and  Christ  came 
down  and  swived  me  night  by  night.  One  morning  Mrs.  Sissly,  the  neighbor 
woman,  said,  'Miss  Warren,  thou'rt  with  child/  and  I  said,  'Mrs.  Sissly,  if  I 
am  with  child  'twas  inspired  by  no  man,  but  by  the  Holy  Ghost.'  But  Mrs. 
Sissly  thought  'twas  some  manservant  of  the  town  I'd  lain  with,  and  told 
the  tale  to  Captain  Mitchell.  He  fell  into  a  rage  on  hearing  the  news,  for 
all  he  was  the  father;  he  told  Martha  Webb,  the  cook,  to  boil  me  an  egg 
next  morning,  and  he  put  a  horrid  physic  in't,  and  made  me  eat  it  all.  Then 
he  put  a  towel  round  his  neck  and  told  Mrs.  Webb  he  had  physicked  him- 
self, and  not  to  allow  any  visitors  whilst  he  was  a-purging.  'Twas  a  terrible 


[  326  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

strong  physic,  that  had  me  three  days  purging  strongly  on  the  close-stool. 
It  made  me  ill  besides,  and  scurvied  all  my  body;  I  broke  out  in  boils  and 
blains,  and  lost  the  hair  off  head  and  privates.  Then  the  babe  in  my  womb 
was  murthered  dead  by't,  and  I  knew  wherefore  he'd  given  it  me  to 

take 

"  What  think  ye  now?7  he  said.  'Will  ye  try  that  trick  again?'  And  I  said, 
That  child  was  holy,  sir;  'twas  fathered  on  me  by  Jesus  in  your  person/ 
And  'Jesus  Christ  indeed!'  said  he.  'There  is  no  such  person,  Sister,  nor 
any  Holy  Ghost!'  And  he  said  he  was  astonished  that  the  world  had  been 
deluded  these  many  years  by  a  man  and  a  pigeon. 

"Now  these  blasphemies  were  heard  by  Mrs.  Webb  and  Mrs.  Sissly,  that 
ofttimes  listened  outside  our  doors,  and  being  both  gocxj  Christian  women 
they  took  the  tale  to  the  sheriff.  Captain  Mitchell  was  summoned  to  the 
next  grand  jury  and  charged  with  fraud,  murther,  adultery,  fornication, 
blasphemy,  and  murtherous  intent.  I  did  rejoice  withal,  despite  he  had  the 
opium  and  my  life  would  end  with  his. 

"But,  alas,  I  recked  without  the  man's  position,  and  the  evil  o'  Maryland's 
courts:  Captain  Mitchell  was  fined  a  sniveling  five  thousand  pounds  o'  sot- 
weed,  whereof  one  third  was  remitted  by  the  Governor,  while  I— that  God 
knows  had  endured  enough-I  was  sentenced  to  thirty-nine  lashes  on  my 
suffering  naked  back,  by  the  courthouse  door,  for  leading  a  lewd  course  o9 
life!  They  also  took  my  master's  post  away— not  for  his  wickedness,  but  for 
his  blasphemies— and  freed  me  from  my  indenture.  But  little  good  that 
did  me,  that  for  my  next  phial  must  indent  myself  again,  and  take  another 
bastinado  at  his  hands! 

"We  moved  then  to  this  place  in  Calvert  County,  and  my  master  plants 
tobacco.  I  am  more  wretched  than  e'er  before,  for  since  the  physic  robbed 
my  beauty  he'll  not  have  me  now  but  once  in  a  passing  while.  He  courts  a 
new  girl,  only  lately  come  from  London,  a  wee  child  of  a  thing  that  hath 
the  face  of  Elizabeth  Williams  and  myself,  and  he  treats  her  like  a  queen 
the  while  I'm  set  to  drive  the  swine.  Yet  he  gives  me  still  my  phials,  and  I 
well  know  why:  'twill  not  be  long  ere  I  hold  her  for  him,  while  he  puts 
the  first  opium  in  her  mouth  and  calls  her  Sister  Elizabeth.  I  shall  get 
no  more  phials  after  that:  I  will  fling  myself  to  drown  in  yon  Patuxent  and 

be  well  out  oft,  and  he  will  have  his  new  young  sister  for  good  and  all 

"God  curse  that  man  and  this  province!"  the  woman  cried  finally,  leaning 
upon  her  staff  to  weep.  "Would  Christ  I  had  died  while  yet  a  maiden  girl, 
in  my  father's  little  coopery  on  the  Thames!" 


20:    THE   LAUREATE  ATTENDS  THE   SWINE-MAIDEN 
HERSELF 


EBENEZER  AND  BERTRANB  LISTENED  DUMB  STRUCK  TO  THIS  TALE,  WHICH 

done  the  poet  cried,  "Out  on't,  but  your  master  is  the  Devil  himself! 
Charles,  Charles!  Where  is  the  majesty  of  Maryland's  law,  when  a  woman 
is  used  so  ill?  I  would  to  Heav'n  my  baggage  were  here  and  not  God  alone 
knows  where;  then  would  I  fetch  up  my  sword,  and  this  Captain  Mitchell 
speak  nimbly!" 

"Ah  nay,  ye  dare  not/'  Susan  warned.  "Let  fall  but  a  word  of  what  I've 
said,  and  we're  all  of  us  dead  men," 

"In  that  event,"  the  Laureate  said  after  some  reflection,  "he  shall  not 
have  the  honor  of  my  visit.  Aye,  the  boor  shall  learn  how  decent  folk  shun 
such  beasts  as  he!" 

"B'm'faith!"  commented  Bertrand.  "Tis  a  fearsome  punishment  you 
exact,  sir!" 

Susan  straightway  recommenced  her  weeping.  "  Tis  done,  then!"  she 
declared.  "Tis  o'er  and  done!" 

"How's  that?"  the  poet  inquired.  "What's  done?" 

"I,"  the  maid  replied,  "for  when  I  saw  your  face  and  heard  o'  your  won- 
drous office,  my  poor  brain  hatched  a  plan.  But  what  I  hatched,  ye've 
scotched,  and  'tis  done  for  Susan  Warren." 

"A  plan,  you  say?" 

The  swine-girl  nodded.  "To  make  my  escape  and  be  rid  o'  that  antichrist 
my  master," 

"Pray  lay  it  open,  then,  that  we  might  judge  it." 

"Know,  then,"  she  said,  "that  some  time  past,  when  Captain  Mitchell 
found  this  newest  prey,  I  guessed  my  phials  would  soon  become  a  burthen 
to  him  and  so,  while  feigning  to  eat  the  whole  of  the  contents,  in  fact  I  laid 
by  a  little  every  time  and  saved  it  in  my  snuffbox  Of  each  phial  I  ate  a 
grain  less  and  saved  a  grain  more,  till  now  I've  near  a  month's  worth  in 
reserve;  and  I  have  farther  hid  my  one  good  dress,  that  Mrs.  Sissly  gave  me 
to  be  flogged  in.  Now  I  have  it  privily  that  Father's  indenture  is  run  out, 
and  Mr.  Spurdance  his  master  hath  given  him  twenty  acres  of  his  own  to 
till  on  the  Eastern  Shore.  If  I  can  flee  from  this  evil  house  I  shall  make  my 


[  328  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

way  to  my  father's  farm  and  hide  myself  till  my  cure  is  done;  then  he  and  I 
shall  seek  passage  back  to  London/' 

"Brave  plans!"  said  Bertraud,  whose  sympathy  the  swine-maid's  plight 
had  won  entirely.  "What  can  we  do  to  aid  ye?" 

"Ah,  sir!"  wept  Susan,  still  addressing  Ebenezer.  "These  brave  plans 
were  fond  indeed,  should  I  simply  strike  out  on  the  road.  The  law  goes 
hard  on  fleeing  servants,  and  my  back  thirsts  not  for  farther  stripes.  What  I 
require  to  fly  this  sink  o'  Hell  fore'er  is  but  a  sum  of  silver,  that  ye  would 
not  miss;  I  have  found  a  boatman  that  will  risk  flogging  to  sail  me  o'er  the 
Bay,  but  he  demands  his  fare.  Two  pounds,  my  lord!"  she  cried,  and  greatly 
disconcerted  the  Laureate  by  falling  to  her  knees  before  him  and  embracing 
his  legs.  "Two  pounds  will  send  me  safe  to  my  dear  father!  Oh,  sir,  refuse 
me  not!  Think  of  someone  ye  love  in  these  sad  straits— thy  sister,  or  some 
sweetheart!" 

"  Tore  God,  I  would  'twere  in  my  power  to  help  you,"  Ebenezer  said, 
*1>ut  I  am  penniless.  I've  but  this  trifling  ring,  here,  made  of  bone " 

He  drew  it  ruefully  from  his  shirt  to  show  his  poverty,  but  at  sight  of  it 
'Susan  jumped  up  and  cried,  "God  save  us!  Whence  came  that  ring?" 

"I  may  not  tell/'  the  poet  replied.  "Why  doth  the  sight  of  it  alarm  you?" 

"No  matter,"  said  Susan,  and  clutched  at  the  fishbone  ring  that  hung 
still  on  its  thong  about  the  poet's  neck.  "It  hath  a  certain  value  in  the 
market,  and  methinks  the  boatman  will  accept  it  for  his  fare." 

But  Ebenezer  hesitated.  "  Twas  a  kind  of  gift,"  he  said.  "I  am  loath  to 
part  with't .  .  ." 

"Christ!  Christ!"  Susan  wailed.  "Ye  will  refuse  me!  Look  ye  hither,  now 
that  fiend  abuses  me!  Will  ye  send  me  back  for  more?" 

She  raised  her  tattered  skirt  above  her  knees  and  displayed  two  legs  which, 
wealed  and  welted  though  they  were,  had  not  been  spoiled  by  the  physic 
that  had  uglified  the  rest  of  her.  Indeed,  they  were  quite  fetching  legs,  the 
first  Ebenezer  had  seen  since  that  day  aboard  the  Cyprian. 

"Ah,  well,  thou'rt  still  a  woman,"  Bertrand  said  appreciatively,  "and  a 
good  wench  sits  upon  her  own  best  argument." 

This  observation  brought  fresh  tears  from  Susan  and  a  scathing  look 
from  Ebenezer. 

"I  have  seen  harlotiy  enough,"  she  declared,  "and  the  boatman  is  a  man 
too  old  to  care." 

^Indeed?"  the  valet  smiled.  "But  my  master  and  I  are  not." 
"Hold  thy  tongue!"  the  poet  commanded.  Susan  came  up  to  him,  and 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  329  ] 

more  than  ever  he  was  moved  by  her  strange  story  and  her  resemblance  to 
Joan  Toast. 

"Ye'd  not  see  me  beat  again  now,  would  ye,  sir?"  They  were  in  sight  of  a 
house  by  this  time,  whose  lamplit  windows  shone  across  the  tobacco-fields. 
"Yonder  there  is  Captain  Mitchell's  house;  he'll  take  you  in  right  gladly  as 
his  guest,  but  me  he  will  whip  privily  'till  he  wearies  of  the  sport." 

Ebenezer  had  some  difficulty  with  his  voice.  "  Twere  in  sooth  a  pity," 
he  croaked. 

"I  shan't  allow  it,"  the  girl  said  softly.  "If  the  man  I  loathe  most  in  the 
world  hath  his  will  o'  me  whene'er  it  please  him,  shall  I  deny  the  man  who 
delivers  me  from  all  my  pain?"  She  fingered  the  fishbone  ring  and  smiled. 
"Nay,  'twere  a  sin  if  my  savior  took  not  his  entire  pleasure  this  very 
night,  ere  I  fly." 

"Prithee,  say  no  farther,"  Ebenezer  answered,  and  wondered  whether 
she  had  capitalized  the  word  savior.  "My  conscience  would  not  rest  were 
I  to  stand  'twixt  you  and  your  loving  father.  You  shall  have  the  ring."  He 
slipped  the  rawhide  thong  over  his  head  and  presented  her  with  the  ring 
of  Quassapelagh.  To  his  mild  annoyance  the  swine-maiden  did  not  imme- 
diately melt  with  gratitude;  indeed,  her  bearing  stiffened  as  she  took  the 
gift,  and  her  smile  showed  a  certain  bitterness. 

"Done,  then,"  she  said,  and  stuffed  the  ring  and  lanyard  into  a  pocket  of 
her  dress.  They  were  at  the  edge  of  the  woods,  by  a  tobacco-field;  the  moon 
rising  over  the  mouth  of  the  river  whitened  their  faces  and  the  flanks  of  the 
hogs  that  rooted  idly  in  the  green  tobacco.  Susan  stepped  out  into  the  field, 
laid  her  staff  on  the  ground  between  the  rows,  and  turned  to  face  them  with 
her  arms  akimbo. 

"Now,  Master  Laureate  of  Maryland,"  she  sighed,  "come  swive  me  in 
the  sot-weed  and  have  done  with't." 

The  poet  was  shocked.  "'Sheart,  Mrs.  Warren,  you  misconstrue  my 
gesture!" 

"Ah?"  She  tossed  her  uncombed  hair  back  from  her  face.  "Anon,  then, 
in  the  haymow  by  the  barn?  Surely  thou'rt  not  the  sort  that  wants  a  bed!" 

Ebenezer  stepped  forward  to  protest.  "I  beg  of  you,  madam " 

"  'Tis  not  your  servant's  presence  puts  ye  off,  now,  is  it?"  she  said  mock- 
ingly. "Ye  look  the  type  that  swives  in  broad  daylight,  let  watch  who  will! 
Would  it  please  ye  better  if  I  feign  a  rape?" 

"God  save  us,"  Bertrand  said,  "the  jade  hath  spirit!  Plague  take  the  hour 
I  lost  my  fishbone  ring!" 

"Enough!"  the  Laureate  cried.  "I  have  no  designs  upon  your  person, 


[220]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Mrs.  Warren,  nor  do  I  want  reward  of  any  sort,  save  that  you  join  your 
father  and  throw  off  the  vicious  craving  that  hath  whored  you.  To  lay  with 
women  is  contrary  to  my  vows,  and  to  set  a  price  on  charity  is  an  insult  to 
my  principles." 

This  gave  the  swine-maid  pause;  she  folded  her  arms,,  turned  her  head 
away,  and  dug  a  pensive  toenail  in  the  dirt. 

"My  master  is  a  sort  of  rhyming  priest,"  Bertrand  explained  quickly.  "The 
bishop,  don't  you  know,  of  all  the  poets.  But  'tis  a  well-known  fact  that  the 
priest's  vows  are  not  binding  on  his  sexton,  nor  do  my  master's  principles 
extend  to  me " 

"Is't  principle  that  makes  your  master  scorn  me?"  Susan  interrupted,  and 
though  her  question  was  addressed  to  Bertrand  it  was  Ebenezer  she  re- 
garded "Or  is't  just  my  sorry  state  that  makes  him  moral?  He'd  sing  a  lustier 
tune,  methinks,  were  I  free  of  whip-scars  and  the  smell  o'  pigs,  and  young 
and  sprightly  as  the  girl  Joan  Toast." 

'What  name  is  this?"  cried  the  poet.  "Dear  God,  I  thought  you  said 
Joan  Toast!" 

Susan  nodded  affirmatively,  once  more  dissolving  into  tears.  "That  is 
the  girl  I  spoke  of,  that  anon  will  be  my  master's  newest  sister,  and  the 
death  of  Susan  Warren." 

Ebenezer  appealed  to  his  valet.  "  'Tis  too  fantastic,  Bertrand!" 

"I  scarce  can  credit  it  myself,  sir,"  Bertrand  said.  "Yet  there  is  that  passing 
likeness,  that  her  tale  explains." 

"'Tis  not  so  strange,"  the  girl  said  testily.  "For  all  her  sweet  airs,  this 
Joan  Toast  was  a  simple  whore  in  London  not  long  since,  and  many's  the 
man  hath  known  her." 

"I  forbid  you  to  speak  thus!"  the  Laureate  ordered.  "I  hold  a  certain 
reverence  for  Joan  Toast;  she  hath  a  strange  deep  home  in  me,  for 
reasons  known  to  none  besides  ourselves.  Where  is  she,  for  the  love  of  God? 
We  must  preserve  her  from  this  Mitchell!" 

"How  can  we?"  Bertrand  asked.  "We've  neither  weapons  nor  money." 

Ebenezer  grasped  the  swine-maiden's  arm.  'Tou  must  take  her  with  you 
to  your  father's  farm!"  he  said.  "Tell  her  your  tale  and  explain  the  peril  she 
is  in.  Once  I  arrive  at  Maiden  I  shall  fetch  her  there " 

"And  marry  her?"  asked  Susan  with  some  bitterness.  "Or  pimp  for  her 
instead,  and  keep  your  vows?" 

The  Laureate  blushed.  "  'Tis  not  the  time  for  speculations  and  conjec- 
tures!" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  331  ] 

"In  any  case  I  cannot  take  her,"  Susan  said.  "I've  fare  for  but  a  single 
passage." 

"We  soon  can  alter  that!"  Bertrand  laughed,  and  leaped  to  pinion  both 
her  arms.  "Snatch  back  the  ring,  sir,  while  I  hold  her!" 

"You  pig!"  she  squealed.  "I'll  have  your  ugly  eyes  outl" 

"Nay,  Bertrand,"  Ebenezer  said,  "let  her  go." 

"This  sorry  jade?"  cried  Bertrand,  laughing  at  her  attempts  to  wriggle 
free.  "She's  but  a  hedge-whore,  sir!  Snatch  the  ring!" 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head  sadly.  "Hedge-whore  or  no,  I  gave  it  to  her  in 
all  good  faith,"  he  said.  "Besides,  we  do  not  know  this  boatman,  nor  where 
Joan  Toast  may  be.  Release  her." 

Bertrand  let  go  the  swine-girl's  arms  and  gave  her  a  sportive  pinch. 
She  squealed  another  curse,  picked  up  her  staff,  and  let  fly  at  him  a  blow 
that,  had  he  not  jumped  clear  of  it,  would  have  cost  him  several  ribs. 

"Ye'll  call  me  a  sorry  hedge-whore!"  she  said  fiercely,,  and  ran  him  off 
some  way  across  the  field.  Ebenezer,  much  more  concerned  about  Joan 
Toast  than  about  either  of  them,  set  off  with  a  thoughtful  frown  toward 
the  house. 

"Your  servant  is  a  lecherous  swine,"  said  Susan,  catching  tip  to  him  a 
moment  later.  She  brushed  her  hair  back  with  her  hand  and  prodded  the 
pigs  to  get  them  going.  "I  beg  your  pardon  for  running  him  off." 

"He  had  it  coming,"  the  poet  said  distractedly. 

"And  I  thank  ye  for  respecting  a  gift,  e'en  though  'twas  not  all  charity 
that  moved  ye.  Ye  must  think  highly  of  this  wench  Joan  Toast" 

"I  will  do  anything  to  save  her,"  Ebenezer  said. 

"I  think  I  can  arrange  it  with  the  boatman,"  Susan  said.  "He  hath  no 
use  for  me,  but  a  fresh  young  tart  like  Joan  hath  ways  to  please  the  feeblest." 

"Nay,  I  shan't  allow  it!  I  shall  find  some  other  way.  Where  is  she?" 

The  swine-girl  did  not  know  where  Joan  Toast  lived,  but  said  she  called 
on  Captain  Mitchell  nightly.  "This  very  night  he  plans  to  giye  her  opium, 
with  my  help.  I  shall  catch  her  ere  she  comes  in,  if  ye  wish,  and  send  her  to 
some  privy  place  to  meet  ye." 

Ebenezer  agreed  wholeheartedly  to  this  plan,,  and  though  he  quailed  at 
the  prospect  of  meeting  Captain  Mitchell,  Susan  persuaded  him  to  join 
the  planter  at  supper.  "The  Devil  himself  can  play  the  gentleman,"  she 
said.  "All  men  are  welcome  at  the  Captain's  board,  and  belike  he'll  change 
your  rags  for  something  better  when  he  hears  your  tale.  I'll  send  ye  word 
when  Joan  Toast  is  well  hid,  and  lead  ye  to  her  ere  I  set  out  for  my  father's." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Done!"  the  poet  exclaimed,  well  pleased.  "I  cannot  fathom  why  she  is 
in  Maryland,  but  I  shall  rejoice  to  see  her!" 

"And  prithee,  are  ye  sure  she'll  feel  the  same?"  the  swine-maid  teased. 
"Can  any  tart  believe  thou'rt  still  a  virgin?" 

"That  doth  not  matter,"  Ebenezer  declared.  "No  man  would  think  me 
Laureate,  either,  in  this  condition,  yet  Laureate  I  am,  and  virginal  as  well. 
Marry,  Susan,  how  I  yearn  to  see  that  girl!  I  beg  thee  not  to  fail  me!" 

Susan  sniffed  acknowledgment  and  they  came  up  to  the  house,  a  large 
but  ill-kept  split-log  dwelling.  It  squatted  amid  the  fields  of  green  tobacco 
and  weed-ridden  garden  crops,  and  the  bare  earth  round  about  it  was 
malodorous  with  the  stools  of  many  hens. 

"Methinks  your  master  hath  fallen  far,"  Ebenezer  observed,  "to  be  re- 
duced to  such  a  dwelling." 

"How's  that?"  the  woman  exclaimed.  "  Tis  one  o'  the  finest  on  the  river! 
Far  too  fine  a  seat  for  such  a  wicked  wretch  as  he!" 

Ebenezer  made  no  comment,  but  wondered  briefly  whether  to  cast  away 
certain  verses  in  his  head  which  praised  the  grace  of  Maryland's  dwellings, 
or  preserve  them  lest  Susan's  knowledge  prove  incomplete.  When  the 
swine-girl  left  him  in  order  to  drive  her  charges  back  to  the  barn,  he  called 
for  Bertrand,  who  came  forth  hurling  curses  after  her,  and  they  made  their 
way  to  the  front  of  the  house. 

"Pray  Heav'n  the  wench  is  right  about  her  master,"  Ebenezer  said,  and 
knocked  on  the  door. 

"I  would  not  trust  the  strumpet  twenty  paces,"  Bertrand  grumbled.  "The 
man  could  murther  us  in  our  sleep." 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  fleshy  man  in  his  fifties,  red-nosed  and  chop- 
whiskered,  who  had  nonetheless  an  air  of  good  breeding  about  his  person. 

"Good  evening,  gentlemen/'  he  said  with  a  slightly  mocking  bow.  His 
clothes  were  fashionable,  if  seedy,  and  the  excellent  gravity  of  his  voice 
came  partly  from  cultivation,  Ebenezer  suspected,  and  partly  from  a  well- 
liquored  laiynx.  Despite  their  wretched  appearance  he  was  as  hospitable  as 
Susan  had  predicted:  he  introduced  himself  as  Captain  William  Mitchell, 
invited  the  visitors  into  the  house  most  cordially,  and  insisted  they  stay  the 
night 

"Be  ye  from  Jail  or  college,"  he  declared,  "thou'rt  welcome  here,  I  swear. 
Dinner's  on  its  way,  and  do  ye  set  down  yonder  with  the  rest,  there's  cider 
to  whet  your  hunger." 

Ebenezer  thanked  his  host  and  launched  into  an  explanation  of  their 
plight— which,  however,  Captain  Mitchell  pleasantly  declined  to  hear,  sug- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  333  ] 

gesting  instead  that  it  serve  to  entertain  the  table.  The  guests  were  then 
led  to  the  dining-room,  from  which  sounds  of  merriment  had  all  along  been 
issuing,  and  were  introduced  to  a  company  of  half  a  dozen  planters  of  the 
neighborhood,  among  whom,  to  his  considerable  surprise,  Ebenezer  saw 
the  clip-eared  old  ferryman  and  one  or  two  others  who  had  stood  that  day 
in  Scotch  cloth  on  the  landing.  They  greeted  him  merrily  and  without 
malice. 

"We  looked  for  ye  to  join  us,  Mister  Cooke,"  one  said.  "Ye  must  forgive 
Jim  Keech's  little  prank/' 

"To  be  sure,"  Ebenezer  said,  seeing  no  other  position  to  take.  "HI  grant 
I  look  more  like  a  beggar  than  the  Poet  Laureate  of  Maryland,  but  when 
you've  heard  what  trials  my  man  and  I  have  suffered,,  you  may  appreciate 
our  state." 

"We  shall,  I'm  sure/'  the  host  said  soothingly.  "Indeed  we  shall."  He 
then  sent  Bertrand  to  eat  back  in  the  kitchen  and  directed  Ebenezer  to  a 
seat  at  the  dinner  table,  which  made  up  in  quantity  what  it  lacked  in 
elegance.  Being  very  hungry,  Ebenezer  fell  to  at  once  and  stuffed  himself 
with  pone,  milk,  hominy,  and  cider-pap  flavored  with  bacon  fat  and 
dulcified  with  molasses,  washing  down  the  whole  with  hard  cider  from  the 
cask  that  stood  at  hand.  He  had,  in  fact,  debated  for  a  moment  the  wisdom 
of  revealing  his  identity,  but  since  he  had  already  revealed  it  on  impulse 
to  the  men  on  the  landing,  and  since  the  company  showed  no  trace  of 
hostility,  he  saw  no  harm  in  relating  the  whole  of  the  story.  This  he  pro- 
ceeded to  do  when  the  meal  was  finished  and  all  the  guests  had  retired  to 
greasy  leather  couches  in  the  parlor;  he  left  out  only  the  political  aspects  of 
his  capture  and  the  adventure  with  Drakepecker  and  the  Anacostin  King, 
whose  safety  he  feared  the  tale  might  jeopardize.  His  audience  attended 
with  great  interest,  especially  when  he  came  to  the  rape  of  the  Cyprian — 
his  tongue  inspired  by  the  rum-keg  in  the  parlor,  Ebenezer  spoke  with 
graphic  eloquence  of  Boabdil  in  the  mizzen-rigging  and  the  nobly  insouci- 
ant ladies  at  the  larboard  rail— yet  when  done  he  saw,  to  his  mild  chagrin, 
small  signs  of  the  pity  and  terror  that  he  thought  his  tale  must  eyoke  in  the 
most  callous  auditor:  instead,  the  men  applauded  as  if  at  some  performance, 
and  Captain  Mitchell,  so  far  from  commiserating,  requested  him  to  recite  a 
poem  or  two  by  way  of  encore. 

"I  fear  I  must  decline,"  the  Laureate  said,  not  a  little  piqued.  "This  day 
hath  been  fatiguing,  and  my  voice  is  spent." 

"Too  bad  our  Timmy  is  not  with  us,"  said  Jim  Keech  of  the  branded 
palm.  "He'd  spin  ye  one  would  ferry  ye  'cross  the  Bay!" 


[  334  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"My  son  Tim's  no  mean  hand  at  rhymes  himself/'  Captain  Mitchell  ex- 
plained to  Ebenezer,  "but  ye  might  say  they're  of  a  somewhat  coarser 
breed." 

"He  is  a  laureate  too,"  Jim  Keech  affirmed  with  a  grin.  "He  calls  himself 
the  Laureate  of  Lubricity,  that  he  says  means  simple  smut." 

"Indeed?"  the  poet  said,  more  out  of  politeness  than  genuine  curiosity. 
"I  did  not  know  our  host  possessed  a  son." 

He  was,  in  fact,  preoccupied  with  thoughts  of  Joan  Toast  and  the  swine- 
maiden,  of  whom  he'd  been  reminded  by  Keech's  reference  to  crossing 
the  Bay.  Captain  Mitchell  apologized  to  tie  group  for  the  absence  of  his 
popular  son,  who  he  declared  had  gone  to  do  some  business  in  St.  Mary's 
City  and  was  due  to  return  that  night  or  the  following  day;  it  was  difficult 
for  Ebenezer  to  realize  that  this  affable  country  squire  before  him  was 
the  monstrous  villain  of  Susan  Warren's  tale,  yet  there  were  the  whip-scars 
on  her  legs,  every  bit  as  cruel  as  those  on  Drakepecker's  back,  and  the 
otherwise  unaccountable  resemblance  between  the  victims  of  his  passion. 

The  company  now  was  virtually  ignoring  him:  pipes  made  after  the 
Indian  fashion  had  been  distributed,  and  the  room  was  filled  with  smoke 
and  general  gossip.  Knowing  nothing  of  the  crops,  fish,  rattlesnakes,  or 
personalities  under  discussion,  irritated  that  his  plight  had  not  aroused  more 
sympathy,  and  weary  of  the  long,  eventful  day  during  which  he'd  been  a 
castaway,  a  god,  a  deliverer  of  kings  and  maidens  in  distress,  and  the  Poet 
Laureate  of  Maryland,  Ebenezer  disengaged  his  attention  from  their  re- 
marks and  slipped  into  a  kind  of  anxious  reverie:  How  would  Joan  Toast 
receive  him,  after  all?  Where  had  she  gone  from  his  room  in  Pudding  Lane, 
and  how  had  her  fearful  dudgeon  led  her  hither?  He  burned  to  know,  yet 
feared  the  answers  to  these  questions.  The  hour  was  growing  late;  soon  now, 
if  she  were  not  deceiving  him,  Susan  Warren  should-  send  word  of  his 
rendezvous,  and  the  prospect  was  in  no  small  sense  arousing.  He  recalled 
the  sight  of  Joan  Toast  in  his  room  and  of  the  girl  he'd  meant  to  assault 
aboard  the  Cyprian 

"Dear  God  in  Heaven!"  his  thoughts  cried  out,  and  he  tingled  to  the 
marrow  of  his  soul.  The  connection  he'd  not  seen  till  then  suffused  him 
with  remorse  and  consternation:  had  Joan  Toast  somehow  got  aboard  the 
Cyprian?  Was  it  she  whom  he  had  stalked  with  prurient  cries,  and  whom 
the  horrid  Moor .  .  .  ? 

His  features  waxed  so  rampant  at  this  unspeakable  possibility  that  his 
host  at  once  inquired  about  his  health. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [335] 

"Nay,  sir,  I  beg  pardon,"  Ebenezer  managed  to  say.  "Tis  but  fatigue, 
I  swear't!" 

"To  bed,  then,  ere  ye  die  here  in  the  parlor,"  Captain  Mitchell  laughed. 
"I'll  show  ye  where  to  sleep." 

"Nay,  prithee "  begged  the  poet,  afraid  lest  he  miss  his  scheduled 

assignation. 

"Fie  on  your  London  manners,  Mister  Cooke!"  the  host  insisted.  "In 
Maryland  when  a  man  is  tired,  he  sleeps.  Susan!  Susan,  ye  lazy  trollop,  get 
thee  hither!" 

"Ah,  well,  sir,  if  'tis  no  affront  to  you  or  your  gracious  guests "  The 

swine-maiden  appeared  in  the  doorway  of  the  parlor,  answered  Ebenezer's 
glance  with  a  little  nod,  and  turned  a  sullen  glare  upon  the  planters,  who 
greeted  her  appearance  with  horny  salutations. 

"Show  Mister  Cooke  here  to  a  bedchamber,"  Mitchell  ordered,  and  bade 
his  guest  good  night. 

"D'ye  think  she'll  lay  for  a  sonnet,"  Jim  Keech  called  after  him,  "like 
that  Spanish  whore  ye  spoke  of?" 

"Nay,  Keech,"  another  answered.  "What  use  hatk  Susie  of  a  laureate 
poet?  She  hath  Bill  Mitchell's  red  boar  to  sport  with!" 

If  these  gross  comments  mortified  Ebenezer  they  titillated  him  as  well, 
and  revived  the  vague  ardor  that  his  late  conjecture  had  not  entirely 
douched.  The  swine-maiden  had  donned  her  flogging-dress,  which  if 
scarcely  more  elegant  than  the  other,  was  at  least  clean,  and  to  judge  by 
the  smell  of  her  she  had  washed  herself  as  well.  As  soon  as  they  were  on  the 
stairs  he  caught  her  arm  and  whispered  "Where  is  Joan  Toast?  I  cannot 
wait  to  see  her!" 

The  woman's  imperfect  teeth  glinted  in  the  light  of  her  candle.  "Thou'rt 
passing  ardent  for  a  virgin,  Master  Laureate!  I  fear  for  your  vows  when  ye 
see  her  in  your  chamber.  .  .  ." 

"My  chamber?  Ah,  God,  Mrs.  Warren,  'twas  in  my  chamber  I  saw  her 
last,  as  pink  and  naked  as  a  lover's  dream!  You'd  not  believe  how  fine  her 
fair  skin  feels,  or  how  tight  and  sprightly  is  her  whole  small  body—ah,  stay, 
not  all,  at  that:  how  could  I  forget 'the  fat  of  her  little  buttocks,  o'ertop  the 
hard  young  muscle?  Or  the  softness  of  her  breasts,  that  gently  flattened 
when  she  lay  supine,  but  hung  like  apples  of  Heav'n  when  she  bent  o'er 
me?  I  shiver  at  the  memory!" 

"Marry,  thou'rt  all  afire,  sir!"  Susan  said,  leading  the  way  down  an  up- 
stairs hall.  "I  dare  not  leave  the  poor  girl  in  your  clutches:  ye  sound  more 
like  a  rapist  than  a  priest!" 


[  536  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

She  said  this  drily,  without  any  real  concern,  but  the  mention  of  rape 
was  enough  to  calm  the  poet's  feverish  rhetoric.  "I  beg  your  pardon  for 
speaking  thus,  madam:  'tis  rum,  fatigue,  and  joy  that  work  my  tongue. 
Prithee  recall  I  never  swived  this  girl,  albeit  she's  everything  I  say  and  more. 
I've  no  mind  to  break  my  vows/' 

Susan  paused  outside  a  door  and  turned  toward  him  so  that  the  candle- 
light flickered  on  her  ruined  face;  Ebenezer  regretted  his  thoughtless 
words. 

"How  can  ye  know  she  still  hath  all  her  beauty?"  Susan  said.  "I  too  was 
pretty  once,  and  not  long  since.  My  husband  wept  with  joy  to  see  my 
body,  and  did  I  place  his  hand  just  so,  his  knees  would  fail  him.  Today 
'twould  make  him  retch/' 

"Thou'rt  too  severe,"  the  poet  protested. 

"D'ye  think  I  cannot  see  what's  in  your  mind?  Ye  wish  I'd  get  me  gone 
posthaste,  so  ye  might  have  an  appetite  for  that  heavenly  fruit  ye  long 
for.  But  life  leaves  its  scars  on  all  of  us,  the  pure  as  well  as  the  wicked, 
and  a  pretty  girl  gets  the  worst  oft.  Ye've  changed  as  well,  I'll  wager,  since 
she  saw  ye  last" 

Ebenezer  rubbed  his  matted  beard,  "I  am  no  courtier,  at  that,"  he  ad- 
mitted, "and  I  stink  of  dirt  and  wood  smoke.  Is  there  a  pail  hereabouts  to 
wash  in?  Ah,  fie  on  it!  Let  her  receive  me  as  she  will,  I  cannot  wait  to  see 
her!  Good  night  to  you,  Mrs.  Warren,  and  good  luck.  A  thousand  thanks 
for  aiding  my  dear  Joan!  Adieu,  now,  and  bon  voyage!"  He  moved  to  pass 
beside  her  to  the  door. 

"Nay,  wait!"  she  pleaded. 

<<Not  a  moment  more!"  He  pushed  past  her  to  the  door  and  stepped 
into  the  chamber,  which,  since  it  looked  out  on  the  river,  received  some 
small  light  from  the  moon  but  was  otherwise  entirely  dark.  "Joan  Toast!" 
he  called  softly.  "Precious  girl,  where  are  you?  'Tis  Eben  Cooke  the  poet, 
come  to  save  you!" 

The  moonlight  showed  no  other  person  in  the  chamber,  nor  was  there 
any  answer  from  the  shadows  roundabout;  when  the  swine-maiden  came 
in  tearfully  from  the  hall,  her  candlelight  confirmed  his  apprehension. 

"Where  is  she?"  he  demanded,  and  when  she  hung  her  head  he  shook 
her  roughly  by  the  shoulders.  "Have  you  deceived  me  too,  you  thankless 
trollop?  Take  me  to  Joan  Toast  this  instant!" 

"She  is  not  here/'  the  swine-girl  sobbed.  She  set  the  candle  down  and 
bolted  for  the  hall,  but  Ebenezer  pulled  her  back  and  closed  the  door. 

"By  Heav'n,  I'll  have  it  from  thy  horrid  hide,"  he  said,  holding  her  tightly 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  337  1 

from  behind.  "If  any  harm  befalls  Joan  Toast  111  kill  you!"  For  all  his  great 
alarm,  he  could  not  but  be  conscious  of  Susan  Warren's  corsetless  hips  under 
the  sleazy  cotton,  and  the  breasts  that  were  mashed  beneath  his  arm.  His 
righteous  anger  thrilled  him:  his  breath  came  short  and  hard,  and  he 
squeezed  her  until  she  paused  in  her  struggling  to  cry  aloud.  He  wrestled 
her  to  the  bed,  possessed  with  the  urge  to  punish.  Not  having  prior  experi- 
ence at  such  sport,  he  first  laid  awkward  thumps  about  her  back,  at  the  same 
time  gruffly  crying  "Where  is  Joan  Toast?"  A  moment  later  he  held  her  flat 
with  one  knee  in  the  small  of  her  back  and  commenced  to  spank  her  smartly 
with  the  flat  of  his  hand  as  though  she  were  an  errant  daughter. 

"She's  safe!"  squalled  Susan.  "Leave  off!" 

Ebenezer  paused  between  blows,  but  held  her  fast  with  his  knee.  "Where 
is  she?" 

"She's  on  her  way  across  the  Chesapeake  to  Dorset  County,  to  wait  for 
ye  at  Maiden,"  Susan  said.  "The  boatman  said  he  knows  the  manor  well." 

"How's  that?"  Ebenezer  released  his  hold  at  once  and  sprang  to  his  feet, 
but  the  swine-girl,  her  face  pressed  woefully  into  the  quilt,  macje  no  move 
to  rise.  "Where  did  she  get  the  fare,  and  how  is  it  thou'rt  not  with  her?" 

"She  was  penniless/'  Susan  said.  "I  caught  her  on  her  way  to  borrow 
money  from  Captain  Mitchell,  which  had  been  the  end  o'  her;  but  devil 
the  bit  she'd  take  the  ring  for  fare,  till  I  told  her  who  had  giv'n  it  me  and 
whither  she  was  to  flee.  Then  she  took  it  right  enough,  and  would  see  you 
on  the  instant,  but  I  bade  her  make  haste  to  find  the  boatman  ere  he 
sailed." 

Tears  sprang  to  Ebenezer's  eyes;  with  one  knee  on  the  bed  he  hugged 
the  girl's  back.  "God's  body,  and  I  struck  you  for  betraying  me!  Forgive  me, 
Susan,  or  I  shall  perish  of  remorse!  We'll  find  some  way  to  save  you  yet,  I 
swear't!" 

She  shook  her  head.  "The  girl  ye  love  is  a  fresh  and  comely  piece,  sir, 
for  all  she  hath  played  the  whore  in  London;  she  said  she  had  got  her  fill 
o'  men  that  behaved  like  goats,  and  had  put  by  her  profession  ere  it  ruined 
her.  She  scorned  ye  once  when  ye  would  not  hire  her,  and  more  when  ye 
resolved  to  stay  a  virgin;  but  the  farther  she  reflected  on't  the  nobler  ye 
appeared,  and  when  she  learned  her  pimp  had  got  ye  sent  to  Maryland, 
she  left  him  straight  and  followed  ye  for  very  love." 

"I'God!  FGod!  For  very  love!"  the  Laureate  whispered.  "But  thou'rt  a 
saint  to  sacrifice  thyself  for  her!" 

"Joan  Toast  was  worth  the  saving,"  Susan  answered.  "There's  naught  o' 
Susan  Warren  to  preserve,  or  I'd  look  to't  myself.  Let  the  poor  wretch  die." 


[  338  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"I  shan't  allow  it!"  Ebenezer  cried.  He  sprang  to  his  feet.  "Thou'rt  too 
fine  for  such  a  fate!" 

Susan  sat  up  on  the  bed.  "Tis  not  long  since  ye  called  me  a  horrid 
trollop,  and  methinks  ye  took  some  joy  in  beating  me/' 

"I  was  a  beast  to  touch  you!"  Ebenezer  said.  "Would  God  you'd  give 
me  back  my  blows  tenfold!" 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  "I  am  so  ugly!" 
"Not  so!"  the  poet  lied.  "Thou'rt  still  uncommon  fair,  I  sweart!"  He 
kneeled  before  her,  embarrassed  and  contrite,  yet  still  aroused,  despite  him- 
self, from  the  recent  tussle.  "I  shall  confess  somewhat  to  you  for  proof," 
he  said.  "My  beating  you  was  doubly  wicked,  for  not  only  was  it  undeserved 
but—ah  God,  how  sinful!— I  took  pleasure  in't,  as  you  charged.  Nor  was't 
a  righteous  pleasure,  but  a  lustful  one!  The  feel  and  sight  of  your— of  what 
I  felt  and  saw— it  fired  my  veins  with  lust.  Doth  that  not  prove  you  have 
not  lost  your  beauty,  Susan?" 

The  boldness  of  his  speech  excited  him  further,  but  Susan  was  not 
consoled.  "It  proves  my  backside's  fairer  than  my  face.  That's  not  the  praise 
a  woman  longs  to  hear,  I  should  say." 

The  Laureate  pressed  his  forehead  against  her  legs.  His  own  knees  ached 
a  little  on  the  floor,  and  he  remembered,  with  a  shiver,  that  the  last  time  he 
had  knelt  beside  a  bed  it  was  the  legs  of  Joan  Toast  that  he  had  clung 
to.  "What  can  I  do  to  show  you  my  esteem?" 
"'Tis  not  esteem  you  feel;  'tis  simple  gratitude." 
But  Ebenezer  ignored  this  sullen  reply,  for  even  while  Susan  was  making 
it  he  found  an  answer  as  if  by  inspiration. 

"Call't  what  you  will,  'tis  great,"  he  said.  "You  have  sacrificed  your  self- 
respect  to  save  the  girl  I  love.  Very  well,  then:  I  shall  sacrifice  my  essence 
to  save  your  self-respect!" 

The  swine-maiden  looked  at  him  uncomprehendingly. 
"Do  you  understand?"  Ebenezer  rose  to  his  feet,  breathing  so  hard  that 
his  speech  came  with  difficulty.  "So  great  is  my  esteem— that  though  I've 
vowed  to  keep  my  innocence  forever— 'tis  thine  in  token  of  my  gratitude. 
Twill  prove  you  have  not  lost  your  power  to  please  a  gentleman!"  Trem- 
bling all  over,  he  laid  his  hands  on  her  shoulders. 

Susan  looked  up  at  his  flushed  face  with  alarm.  "Ye  wish  to  swive  me, 
sir?  What  will  Joan  Toast  think,  that  loves  ye  for  a  virgin?" 

"My  chastity  means  more  than  life  to  me,"  the  poet  vowed,  "else  I'd  not 
presume  to  match  it  against  your  sacrifice.  My  loss  is  great,  but  subtle,  and 
leaves  no  broken  hymen  as  its  symbol.  No  one  shall  know  but  thee  and 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  339  ] 

me,  and  I  shall  never  tell.  Come,  girl,"  he  croaked,  waxing  hot,  "tarry  no 
longer!  I  itch  fpr  the  combat!" 

But  Susan  wriggled  free  and  stepped  away  from  him.  'Te'd  deceive  her, 
that  hath  come  so  far  for  love!  Haply  thou'rt  already  not  a  virgin,  then!" 

"  Tore  God  I  am  till  now,"  he  said,  "and  if  you  call  this  deed  deceit, 
then  grant  at  least  'tis  done  for  noble  cause!" 

She  turned  away  in  tears,  but  when,  summoning  every  particle  of  his 
courage,  Ebenezer  embraced  her  from  behind,  she  offered  no  more  protest 
than  to  cry,  "What  shall  I  think?" 

"That  thou'rt  yet  a  comely  piece!"  Astonished  at  his  own  temerity, 
he  caressed  her.  When  even  then  she  did  not  resist,  her  passivity  fired  him 
with  encouragement. 

"Ho,  here,"  he  cried,  "to  the  bed  with  you!"  Dizzy  with  success,  he  gave 
his  tongue  free  rein.  "I  shall  cleave  thee  with  the  rhymer's  blade,  cure  thee 
with  the  smoke  of  love,  stuff  thee  with  the  lardoon  of  Parnassus,  baste  and 
infuse  thee  with  the  muse's  nectar,  and  devour  thee  while  thou'rt  yet 
aquiver!" 

"Nay,  prithee,"  Susan  said,  "ye've  proved  your  point!" 

"And  now  shall  press  and  ply  it  like  St.  Thomas,"  Ebenezer  said,  "till 
my  virgin  quill  hath  writ  a  very  Summa!" 

"  'Twere  cruel  to  feign  such  passion  out  of  gratitude,  and  wicked  to  cheat 
Joan  Toast!"  She  offered  real  resistance  now,  but  Ebenezer  would  not  re- 
lease her. 

"Then  call  me  cruel  and  wicked  when  thou'rt  swivedl"  He  pushed  her 
onto  the  bed. 

"  'Twill  be  a  common  rape!"  she  squealed. 

"So  be't!" 

"Not  here,  then!  'Sheart,  not  here!" 

"Why  not,  pray?"  asked  the  poet;  he  paused  with  his  innocence,  as  it 
were,  at  the  ready. 

"Some  women  take  a  man  without  a  sound,"  the  swine-girl  said,  averting 
her  eyes,  "but  I  cannot;  whether  'tis  a  wooing  or  what  have  ye,  I  must 
hollow  like  a  rutting  cat,  and  flail  about." 

"So  much  the  better,"  Ebenezer  said. 

"  'Twill  bring  the  household  running Stop,  I  warn  ye!" 

"They  are  no  canting  Puritans,  methinks— hold  still,  there!" 

"Then  swive  me,  damn  ydur  eyes!"  Susan  cried,  and  gave  up  struggling 
altogether.  "Break  your  vow,  cheat  Joan  Toast,  let  Captain  Mitchell  come 


[  34°  1  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

a-running  when  I  scream!  He'll  laugh  to  see't,  and  beat  me  later  for't,  and 
tell  the  tale  all  up  and  down  the  Province!" 

This  possibility  gave  the  Laureate  pause.  He  released  his  grip  on  the 
woman's  arms,  and  she  took  the  opportunity  to  move  aside  and  sit  up. 

"I'll  throttle  you  if  I  must/'  he  said,  but  the  threat  was  more  surly  than 
sincere. 

"Ye  needn't,"  Susan  grumbled.  "Slack  off,  now,  ere  ye  take  a  lover's  pain, 
and  meet  me  in  the  barn  anon." 

"Get  on  with't.  I'm  not  so  gullible!  We'll  go  together." 

But  Susan  explained  that  they  were  sure  to  be  seen  leaving  the  house, 
and  the  scandal  would  be  the  same. 

"I'll  go  there  now,"  she  said,  "and  you  come  half  an  hour  behind.  Then 
ye  may  play  the  two-backed  beast  to  your  heart's  content  with  no  one  save 
my  swine  to  hear  me." 

And  on  this  ambiguous  pledge  she  left,  before  the  poet  could  catch  her. 


<*$  21:  THE  LAUREATE  YET  FURTHER  ATTENDS  THE 
SWINE-MAIDEN 


A  VERY  FEW  MINUTES  AFTER   SUSAN  WARREN'S   DEPARTURE   BERTRAND 

entered  the  Laureate's  chamber  and  found  his  master  pacing  furiously 
about,  sighing  and  smacking  his  fist  into  his  hand. 

"  'Sbody,  how  these  scoundrels  eat!"  the  valet  said.  His  voice  was  thick 
and  his  stance  unsteady.  "  Tis  coarse,  I'll  grant,  but  copious." 

"Methinks  you  more  than  quenched  your  thirst  as  well,"  Ebenezer  ob- 
served uncordially.  "What  is't  you  want?" 

"Why,  nothing  that  I  know  of,  sir.  What  I  mean,  they  said  I  was  to  sleep 
here." 

"Sleep,  then,  and  be  damned  to  you.  There's  the  bed." 

"Ah,  sir,  'tis  thine,  not  mine.  Only  let  me  have  that  quilt;  I'll  want  no 


more." 


Ebenezer  shrugged  and  went  to  the  window;  unfortunately  he  could 
not  see  the  barn  from  there.  His  valet  spread  the  quilt  on  the  floor,  flopped 
heavily  upon  it,  and  sighed  a  mighty  sigh.  "  'Tis  not  the  same  as  being  god 
in  a  golden  town,"  he  declared,  patting  his  stomach,  "but  'twill  do  for  the 
nonce,  i'faith!  I  wonder  how  our  man  Drakepecker  fares?"  When  he  saw 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  341  ] 

no  answer  was  forthcoming  he  sighed  once  more,  turned  on  his  side,  and  in 
a  trice  fell  fast  asleep. 

His  master,  less  tranquil,  cracked  his  knuckles  and  clucked  his  tongue; 
debating  what  to  do.  At  Susan  Warren's  first  distraction  his  mad  impulse 
had  faltered,  and  upon  her  departure  from  the  room  it  had  foundered  al- 
together. He  was  at  sixes  and  sevens.  Twice  now  he  had  come  within  an 
ace  of  fornication— worse,  of  meaningless  rape— and  his  integrity  had  been 
preserved  by  chance,  through  outside  agencies.  The  girl  in  the  Cyprian's 
rigging  had  been  assaulted  and  was  helpless;  the  Warren  woman  had  been 
assaulted  and  was  coarse  and  ugly  in  the  face;  both  were  objects  not  for 
passion  but  for  pity,  and  what  resemblance  they  bore  to  Joan  Toast,  so  far 
from  serving  as  an  excuse  for  his  inexcusable  behavior,  was  further  indict- 
ment  of  it.  All  this  he  saw  clearly,  and  remembered  as  well  the  relief  and 
shame  he  had  felt  a  fortnight  since,  after  fate  had  fetched  him  from  the 
mizzen  ratlines.  To  go  now  to  the  barn  would  be  to  cheat  the  girl  who, 
incredibly,  had  come  half  around  the  world  for  love  of  a  man  never  smiled 
on  thitherto  by  any  woman  save  his  sister,  and  to  sacrifice  besides  a  good 
moiety  of  his  essence  to  a  ruined  tart  between  him  and  whom  no  love  was 
lost,  and  who  would  contemn  the  deed  as  much  as  he.  Yet  he  also  saw,  and 
could  not  fathom,  that  in  his  heart  the  question  still  lay  open. 

"  'Tis  too  absurd!"  he  thought,  and  flung  himself  angrily  upon  the  bed 
where  they  had  grappled.  "I  shall  think  of  it  no  more."  He  regarded 
Bertrand  with  envy,  but  sleep,  for  him,  was  out  of  the  question:  his  fancy 
burned  with  images  of  the  swine-maiden  suffering  his  punishments  and 
molestations,  confessing  with  averted  eyes  how  noisily  she  wooed,,  and  wait- 
ing for  him  at  that  moment  in  the  barn.  On  the  scales  of  Prudence  one 
pan  lay  empty,  while  Reason's  entire  weight  tipped  down  the  other;  what 
dark  force,  then,  on  the  scales  of  Choice,  effected  counterbalance? 

While  thus  he  lay  debating,  his  valet,  though  asleep,  was  by  no  means  at 
rest  His  innards  commenced  to  growl  and  snarl  like  beagles  at  a  grounded 
fox;  the  hominy  and  cider  in  him  foamed  and  effervesced;  anon  there  came 
salutes  to  the  rising  moon,  and  the  bedchamber  filled  with  the  perfume  of 
ferment.  The  author  of  these  delights  snored  roundly,  but  his  master  was 
not  so  fortunate;  indeed,  he  had  at  length  to  flee  the  room,  ears  ringing, 
head  a-spin,  and  the  smart  of  bumbolts  in  his  eyes.  The  guests  were  still 
carousing  in  the  parlor;  Ebenezer  gathered  from  what  he  could  hear  that 
the  host's  son  Timothy  had  returned  and  was  regaling  them  with  indelicate 
verses.  He  slipped  out  to  the  front  porch  unobserved  to  breathe  the  cool 


[  342  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

air  moving  off  the  river,  and  from  that  way-station  soon  enough  strolled 
bamwards,  deaf  to  the  judgment  of  his  conscience. 

The  moon  shed  light  to  walk  by  in  the  yard,  but  the  inside  of  the  barn 
was  black  as  Chaos.  He  thought  of  calling  Susan,  but  decided  not  to. 

"I  shall  approach  in  silence,  and  clip  her  like  a  brigand  in  the  dark!" 

This  was  a  thrilling  fancy:  he  pricked  up  at  every  rustle  in  the  barn, 
and  the  cramps  of  love  like  hatching  chicks  bid  fair  to  burst  their  prisons. 
What's  more,  six  stealthy  paces  in  the  dark  were  enough  to  stir  his  bladder 
past  ignoring;  he  was  obliged  to  relieve  himself  then  and  there  before  going 
farther. 

"God  aideth  those  that  aid  themselves,9'  he  reflected. 

But  unlike  Onan,  who  hit  no  noisier  target  than  the  ground,  the  hapless 
Laureate  chanced  to  strike  a  cat,  a  half-grown  torn  not  three  feet  distant 
that  had  looked  like  a  gray  rock  in  the  dark.  And  like  the  finger-flick  of 
Descartes'  God,  which  Burlingame  once  spoke  of,  this  small  shot  in  the 
dark  set  an  entire  universe  in  motion!  The  mouser  woke  with  a  hiss  and 
flew  with  splayed  claws  at  the  nearest  animal— fortunately  not  Ebenezer 
but  one  of  Susan's  shoats.  The  young  pig  squealed,  and  soon  the  barn  was 
bleating  with  the  cries  of  frightened  animals.  Ebenezer  himself  was  terri- 
fied, at  first  by  the  animals,  whose  number  and  variety  he  had  not  suspected, 
and  then  lest  the  din,  now  amplified  by  barking  dogs  outside,  arouse  the 
household.  When  he  jumped  back,  holding  up  his  breeches  in  one  hand, 
he  happened  upon  a  stick  leaning  against  the  wall— possibly  Susan's  staff. 
Me  snatched  it  up,  at  the  same  time  crying  "Susan!  Susan!"  and  laid  about 
him  vigorously  until  the  combatants  ran  off— the  shoat  into  the  cow  stalls 
and  the  cat  into  a  corner  whence  had  come  some  sound  of  poultry.  A 
moment  later  the  respite  ended:  the  barn  was  filled  with  quacks  and 
squawks;  ducks,  geese,  and  chickens  beat  the  air  wildly  in  their  effort  to 
flee  the  cat,  and  Ebenezer  suffered  pecks  about  the  head  and  legs  as 
bird  after  bird  encountered  him.  This  new  commotion  was  too  much  for 
the  dogs,  a  pair  of  raucous  spaniels:  they  bounded  in  from  the  yard  in 
pursuit  of  what  they  took  to  be  a  fox  or  a  weasel  preying  on  the  poultry, 
and  for  all  the  Laureate  thrashed  around  him  with  his  stick,  they  ran  him 
from  the  barn  and  treed  him  in  a  poplar  near  the  closest  tobacco-shed. 
There  they  held  him  at  bay  for  some  fifteen  minutes  before  trotting  off  to 
sleep,  their  native  lack  of  enthusiasm  overcoming  their  brief  ambition. 

As  yet  the  poet  had  seen  no  sign  of  Susan  Warren,  and  he  began  to  fear 
she  had  deceived  him  after  all.  He  resolved  to  descend  and  try  the  barn 
once  more,  both  to  verify  his  suspicions  and  to  take  cover  from  the 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  343  ] 

mosquitoes,  which  were  raising  welts  all  over  his  face  and  ankles;  but  as  he 
was  climbing  down  he  heard  a  noise  like  a  buzz  or  rattle  in  the  grass.  Was 
it  only  a  common  cricket,  or  was  it  one  of  those  snakes  Mr.  Keech  had 
described  during  supper?  The  notion  of  descent  lost  all  its  charm,  and 
though  he  heard  the  sound  no  more,  and  the  mosquitoes  were  no  less 
hungry,  he  remained  a  good  while  longer  in  the  tree,  too  frightened  even 
to  compose  an  indignant  Hudibrastic. 

He  might,  in  fact,  have  still  been  there  at  sunup— for  on  the  heels  of 
Fear,  like  a  tart  behind  her  pimp,  came  the  shame  he  knew  would  embrace 
him  soon  or  late,  and  Shame  brought  her  gaunt-eyed  sister-whore  Despair 
—but  at  length  he  heard  some  man  at  the  back  of  the  house  say  "No  more, 
now,  Susan;  good  night  and  get  ye  gone!"  Then  the  house  door  closed, 
and  a  cloaked  form  crossed  the  distant  yard  and  entered  the  barn. 

"That  scoundrel  Mitchell  had  her  in  the  parlor!"  Ebenezer  thought,  and 
recalled  the  coarse  familiarity  with  which  the  planter  had  saluted  her.  "She 
was  accosted  as  she  left  and  put  to  some  lewd  entertainment,  and  only  now 
hath  managed  to  escape!" 

This  conjecture,  so  far  from  filling  him  with  pity,  revived  his  ardor  at 
once,  as  had  the  plight  of  the  Cyprian  women;  quietly  and  cautiously  he 
slid  down  from  the  poplar  and  stalked  through  the  tall  grass  to  the  bam, 
expecting  at  any  moment  to  feel  the  fangs  of  the  viper  in  his  heel.  Arriving 
safely  at  the  doorway,  he  entered  without  a  sound  and  saw  inside  only  the 
faintest  of  gleams  from  a  shaded  lantern. 

"Hssst!"  he  whispered,  and  "Hssst!"  came  the  reply.  Ebenezer  heard  a 
labored  respiration,  unmistakably  human,  just  down  the  wall  from  where 
he  stood,  and  so  resolved  to  call  no  more,  but  execute  his  original  plan  of 
surprise  assault.  Very  carefully  he  crept  toward  his  prey,  whose  location  in 
the  pigpen  he  fixed  easily  by  her  heavy  breathing  and  the  rustle  of  restless 
swine  in  her  vicinity.  Only  when  he  judged  himself  virtually  upon  her  did 
he  croon  "Susie,  Susie,  me  doxy,  me  dove!"  at  the  same  time  clutching 
amorously  at  her  form. 

Bare  legs  he  felt,  and  hams,  but 

"Heav'n  upon  earth,  what's  this?" 

"What  is't,  indeed?"  a  man's  voice  cried,  and  after  a  short  struggle  the 
poet  found  himself  pinned  face  down  in  the  sour  straw  of  the  pen.  His 
would-be  victim  sat  upon  his  back  and  held  his  arms;  sows,  hogs,  and  shoats 
snuffled  nervously  together  at  the  far  end  of  the  enclosure.  "Ye  thought  me 
your  doxy,  your  dove,  now,  did  ye?  What  knave  are  ye,  sir?" 


[  344  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Prithee,  let  me  but  explain!"   Ebenezer  pleaded.  "I   am   Captain 

Mitchell's  guest!" 

"Our  guest!  What  way  is  this  to  return  our  hospitality?  Ye^dnnk  our 
cider  and  eat  our  hominy  and  then  ye  think  to  swive  my  Portia!" 

"Portia?  Who  is  Portia?" 

"The  same  my  father  calls  Susie.  Til  wager  he  put  ye  up  to  this!" 

The  Laureate's  heart  sank.  "Your  father!  Then  thou'rt  Tim  Mitchell?" 

"The  same.  And  which  ungrateful  wretch  are  you?" 

"I  am  Ebenezer  Cooke,  sir,  Poet  and  Laureate  of  the  Province  of 
Maryland " 

"Nay!"  said  Mitchell,  clearly  impressed,  and  to  Ebenezer's  great  sur- 
prise he  released  his  hold  at  once.  "Sit  up,  sir,  please,  and  forgive  my  rude 
behavior;  'twas  but  concern  for  my  Portia's  chastity." 

"I—I  quite  forgive  you,"  the  poet  said.  He  sat  up  hastily,  wondering  at 
the  fellow's  words.  Tim  Mitchell,  to  judge  by  his  voice,  was  a  man  of  Ebene- 
zer's  age  at  least;  how  could  he  speak  of  Susan's  chastity?  "I  believe  thou'rt 
having  a  jest  at  my  expense,  Mr.  Mitchell,  are  you  not?" 

"Or  you  at  mine,"  the  other  man  sighed.  "Ah  well,  ye've  caught  us  fair, 
and  Portia's  life  is  in  your  hands." 

"Her  life!  She's  here,  then,  in  this  pen?" 

"Of  course,  sir;  over  yonder  with  the  rest.  I  beg  ye  not  to  speak  a  word 
to  Father!" 

"Marry!"  the  poet  cried.  "What  madness  is  this,  Mister  Mitchell?  Explain 
yourself,  I  beg  you!" 

The  other  man  sighed.  "  'Tis  just  as  well  I  did,  for  if  ye  mean  to  ruin  us, 
ye  will,  and  if  thou'rt  a  gentleman,  perchance  ye'll  leave  us  in  peace." 

"Thou'rt  in  love  with  Susan?"  Ebenezer  asked  incredulously. 

"Aye  and  I  am,"  Tim  Mitchell  replied,  "and  have  been  since  the  day  I 
saw  her.  Her  name  is  really  Portia,  Mister  Cooke;  'tis  Father  calls  her  Susie, 
after  a  whore  of  a  mistress  he  once  had.  He  regards  her  as  his  property,  sir, 
and  treats  her  like  a  beast!  Should  he  learn  the  truth  of  our  love  there 
would  be  no  end  to  his  wrath!" 

Ebenezer^s  brain  spun  dizzily.  "Dear  Mister  Mitchell " 

,  'The  blackguard!"  Timothy  went  on,  his  voice  unsteady.  "Till  he  hath 
got  that  new  wench  in  his  power,  he  comes  out  eveningly  to  poor  sweet 
Portia,  whose  maidenhead  he  claimed  when  she  was  yet  a  shoat  too  young 
to  fend  him  off." 

Ebenezer  could  not  but  admire  the  metaphor  of  the  shoat,  and  yet 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  345  ] 

there  were  obvious  discrepancies  between  the  accounts  of  Susan's  past.  "I 
do  declare,"  he  protested,  "this  is  not " 

"There  is  no  limit  to  the  man's  poltroonery/'  Timothy  hissed.  "Albeit 
he  is  my  father,  sir,  I  loathe  him  like  the  Devil!  Say  naught  of  this,  I  beg  ye, 
for  in  his  wickedness,  did  he  know  aught  of  our  love,  he  would  give  her  to 
the  lecherous  boar  in  yonder  pen,  that  e'er  hath  looked  on  her  with  lewd 
intent,  and  let  him  take  his  slavering  will  o'  her/' 

Ebenezer  gasped.  "You  do  not  mean  to  say " 

But  even  as  the  truth  dawned  on  him,  young  Mitchell  called  "Portia! 
Hither,  Portia!  Soo-ieF  and  an  animal  shuffled  over  from  the  far  wall  in 
the  dark. 

"Lookee  there,  how  gentle!"  Tim  said  proudly. 

"Out  on't!"  the  Laureate  whispered. 

"Think  o'  her  as  your  own  dear  sister,  sir:  would  ye  consign  her  to  be 
ravished  by  a  filthy  beast?" 

"I  would  not,"  Ebenezer  exclaimed,  "and  I  am  affronted  by  the 
analogy!  In  sooth  I  cannot  tell  who's  beastlier,  the  buggerman  or  the  boar; 
'tis  the  viciousest  vice  I  e'er  encountered!" 

Timothy  Mitchell's  voice  reflected  more  disappointment  than  intimidar 
tion  at  the  outburst.  "Ah,  sir,  no  amorous  practice  is  itself  a  vice— can  ye 
be  in  sooth  a  poet  and  not  see  that?  Adultery,  rape,  deceit,  unfair  seduction— 
'tis  these  are  vicious,  not  the  coupling  of  parts:  the  sin  is  not  in  the  act, 
but  in  the  circumstances." 

Ebenezer  wished  he  could  see  this  curious  moralist's  face.  "What  you 
say  may  well  be  true,  but  you  speak  of  men  and  women " 

"Shame  on  a  poet  that  hearkens  so  lightly!"  Timothy  chided.  "  Twas 
male  and  female  I  spoke  of,  not  men  and  women." 

"But  such  a  foul,  unnatural  jointure!" 

Timothy  laughed.  "Methinks  Dame  Nature's  not  so  nice  as  thee,  sir.  I 
grant  ye  that  a  rabbit-hound  in  heat  seeks  out  a  bitch  to  mate  with,  but 
doth  he  care  a  fig  be  she  turnspit  or  mastiff?  Nay,  more,  by  Heav'n,  he'll 
have  at  any  partner,  be't  his  bitch,  his  brother,  or  his  master's  boot!  His 
urge  is  natural,  and  hath  all  nature  for  its  target—with  a  hound-bitch  at 
the  bulls-eye,  so  to  speak.  I  have  seen  yonder  spaniels  humping  sheep.  .  .  ." 

Ebenezer  sighed.  "The  face  of  buggery  hath  yet  a  sinful  leer,  for  all  the 
paint  and  powder  of  your  rhetoric.  These  poor  dumb  creatures  are  be- 
trayed by  accident,  but  man  hath  light  enough  to  see  Dame  Nature's 
plan." 

"And  sense  enough  to  see  it  hath  no  object,  save  to  carry  on  the  species," 


[  346  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Timothy  added.  "And  wit  enough  to  do  for  sport  what  the  beasts  do  willy- 
nilly.  I  have  no  quarrel  with  women,  Master  Poet:  'tis  many  a  maid  I've 
loved  ere  now  and  doubtless  shall  again.  But  just  as  Scripture  tells  us  that 
death  is  the  fruit  of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge,  so  Boredom,  methinks,  is  the 
fruit  of  Wit  and  Fancy.  A  new  mistress  lies  upon  her  back  at  night  in  a 
proper  chamber,  and  her  lover  is  content.  But  anon  this  simple  pleasure 
palls,  and  they  set  about  to  refine  their  sport:  from  Aretine  they  learn  the 
joy  of  sundry  stoops  and  stances;  from  Boccaccio  and  the  rest  they  learn  to 
woo  by  the  light  o'  day,  in  fields  and  wine  butts  and  chimney  corners; 
from  Catullus  and  the  naughty  Greeks  they  learn  There  are  more  ways  to 
the  'woods  than  one,  and  more  woods  than  one  to  be  explored  by  every  way. 
If  they  have  wit  and  daring  there  is  no  end  to  their  discovery,  and  if  they 
read  as  well,  they  have  the  amorous  researches  of  the  race  at  their  disposal: 
the  pleasures  of  Cathay,  of  Moors  and  Turks  and  Africans,  and  the  cleverest 
folk  of  Europe.  Is  this  not  the  way  oft,  sir?  When  men  like  us  become 
enamored  of  a  woman,  we  fall  in  love  with  every  part  and  aspect;  we  cannot 
rest  till  we  know  with  all  our  senses  every  plain  and  secret  part  of  our 
beloved,  and  then  we  gnash  our  teeth  that  we  cannot  go  beneath  her  skin! 
I  am  no  great  poet  like  you,  sir,  but  'twas  just  this  craving  I  once  turned 
into  verse,  in  this  manner: 

"Let  me  taste  of  thy  Tears, 

And  the  Wax.  of  thine  Ears; 
Let  me  drink  of  thy  Body's  own  Wine " 

"Eh!  'Sheart!  Have  done  ere  you  gag  me!"  Ebenezer  cried.  "Thy  body's 
own  wine!  Ne'er  have  I  heard  such  verses!7' 

"Thou'rt  a  stranger  to  Master  Barnes,  then,  the  sonneteer?  He  longed  to 
be  the  sherry  in  his  mistress's  glass,  that  she  might  curl  him  in  her  tongue, 
warm  her  amorous  blood  with  him,  and  piss  him  forth  anon.  .  .  ." 

'There  is  a  certain  truth  in  all  of  this  you  tell  me,"  Ebenezer  admitted. 
"I'll  grant  you  farther  that  were  I  not  resolved  to  chastity— nay,  do  not 
laugh,  sir,  'tis  true,  as  ITI  explain  in  time— were  I  not  resolved  to  chastity,  I 
say,  but  had  me  a  mistress  like  the  lot  of  men,  I  should  feel  this  urge  you 
speak  of,  to  know  her  in  every  wise,  saving  only  her  'body's  own  wine'  and 
such  like  liquors,  that  can  stay  in  her  distillery  for  all  I'll  quaff  'em!  There's 
naught  unnatural  in  this:  'tis  but  the  lover's  ancient  wish  that  Plato  speaks 
of,  to  be  one  body  with  his  beloved;  and  with  poets  in  especial  'tis  not  to  be 
wondered  at,  forasmuch  as  love  and  woman  are  so  oft  the  stuff  of  verse. 
Yet  'tis  no  mean  leap  from  Petrarch's  Laura,  or  even  Barnes's  thirsty 
wench,  to  your  fat  sow  Portia  here!" 


THE   SOT-WEED   FACTOR  [  347  ] 

"On  the  contrary,  sir,  'tis  no  leap  at  all,"  Tim  said.  "You  have  already 
pled  my  case.  Your  Socrates  had  Xanthippe  to  warm  his  bed,  but  he  took 
his  sport  with  the  young  Greek  lads  as  well,  did  he  not?  Ye  say  that  women 
are  oft  the  stuff  o'  poetry,  but  in  fact  'tis  the  great  wide  world  the  poet  sings 
of:  God's  whole  creation  is  his  mistress,  and  he  hath  for  her  this  selfsame 
love  and  boundless  curiosity.  He  loves  the  female  body— Heav'n  knows!— 
the  little  empty  space  between  her  thighs  he  loves,  that  meet  to  make 
sweet  friction  lower  down;  and  the  two  small  dimples  in  the  small  o'  her 
back,  that  are  no  strangers  to  his  kiss/' 

41  Tis  quite  established,"  Ebenezer  said,  his  blood  roused  up  afresh,  "the 
female  form  is  wondrous  to  behold!" 

"But  shall  it  blind  ye  to  the  beauty  of  the  male,  sir?  Not  if  ye've  Plato's 
eyes,  or  Shakespeare's.  How  comely  is  a  well-formed  man!  That  handsome 
cage  of  ribs,  and  the  blocky  muscles  of  his  calves  and  thighs;  the  definition 
of  his  hands,  ridged  and  squared  with  veins  and  tendons,  and  more  pleasing 
than  a  woman's  to  the  eye;  the  hair  of  his  chest,  that  the  nicest  sculptors 
cannot  render;  and  noblest  of  all,,  his  manhood  in  repose!  What  contrast  to 
that  sweet  unclutteredness  of  women!  The  chiefest  fault  of  the  sculpting 
Greeks,  methinks,  is  that  their  marble  men  have  the  parts  of  little  boys: 
'tis  pederastic  art,  and  I  abhor  it.  How  wondrous,  had  they  carved  the  living 
truth,  that  folk  in  ancient  times  were  wont  to  worship— the  very  mace  and 
orbs  of  kingly  power!" 

"I  too  have  admired  men  on  occasion,"  Ebenezer  said  grudgingly,  "but 
my  flesh  recoils  at  the  thought  of  amorous  connection!"  His  unseen  partner's 
words,  in  fact,  had  recalled  to  him  the  indignities  which  he  had  suffered 
more  than  three  months  earlier  in  the  Poseidon's  fo'c'sle. 

"Then  more's  the  pity,"  Tim  said  lightly,  "for  there's  much  to  be  said  of 
men  in  verse.  Marry,  sometimes  I  wish  I  had  a  gift  with  words,  sir,  or  some 
poet  had  my  soul:  what  lines  I  would  make  about  the  bodies  of  men  and 
women!  And  the  rest  of  creation  as  well!"  Ebenezer  heard  him  patting 
•  Portia.  "Great  rippling  hounds,  sleek  mares,  or  golden  cows— how  can  men 
and  women  rest  content  with  little  pats  for  such  handsome  beasts?  I,  I  love 
them  from  the  last  recesses  of  my  soul;  my  heart  aches  with  passion  for  their 
bodies!" 

"Perversity,  Mr.  Mitchell!"  the  Laureate  scolded.  "You've  parted  com- 
pany now  with  Plato  and  Shakespeare,  and  with  every  other  gentleman  as 
well!" 

"But  not  with  mankind,"  Timothy  declared.  "Europa,  Leda,  and  Pasip^ae 
are  my  sisters;  my  offspring  are  the  Minotaur,  and  the  Gorgons,  and  the 


[  34$  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Centaurs,  the  beast-headed  gods  of  the  Egyptians,  and  all  the  handsome 
royalty  of  the  fairy  tales,  that  must  be  loved  in  the  form  of  toads  and 
geese  and  bears.  I  love  the  world,  sir,  and  so  make  love  to  it!  I  have  sown 
my  seed  in  men  and  women,  in  a  dozen  sorts  of  beasts,  in  the  barky  boles 
of  trees  and  the  honeyed  wombs  of  flowers;  I  have  dallied  on  the  black 
breast  of  the  earth,  and  clipped  her  fast;  I  have  wooed  the  waves  of  the 
sea,  impregnated  the  four  winds,  and  flung  my  passion  skywards  to  the 
stars!" 

So  exalted  was  the  voice  in  which  this  confession  was  delivered  that 
Ebenezer  shrank  away,  as  discreetly  as  he  could,  some  inches  farther  from 
its  author,  who  he  began  to  fear  was  mad. 

"  Tis  a  most— most  interesting  point  of  view,"  he  said. 

"I  was  sure  'twould  please  ye/'  Timothy  said.  "Tis  the  only  way  for  a 
poet  to  look  at  the  world/' 

"Ah,  well,  I  did  not  say  I  share  your  catholic  tastes!" 

"Come  now,  sir!"  Timothy  laughed.  "Twas  not  in  your  sleep  ye  came 
here  calling  Susiel" 

Ebenezer  made  a  small  mumble  of  protest;  he  did  not,  on  the  one  hand, 
care  to  let  Timothy  believe  that  the  Laureate  of  Maryland  shared  his  vicious 
lust  for  livestock,  but  on  the  other  hand  he  was  not  prepared  to  reveal  the 
true  reason  for  his  presence  in  the  barn. 

"Thou'rt  too  much  the  gentleman  to  molest  her  now,"  Tim  went  on. 
Ebenezer  heard  him  moving  closer  and  retreated  another  step. 

"Twas  all  an  error  of  judgment!"  he  cried,  tingling  with  shame.  "I  can 
explain  it  all!" 

"Wherefore?  D'ye  think  I  mean  to  ruin  your  name,  when  ye  have  spared 
my  Portia?  Susan  Warren  told  me  all,  and  I  bade  her  wait  for  ye;  I'll  lead  ye 
straight  to  her,  and  ye  may  sport  the  night  away."  He  caught  up  before 
Ebenezer  could  run  and  grasped  his  upper  arm. 

"Tis  more  than  kind,"  the  Laureate  said  apprehensively,  "but  I've  no 

wish  to  go  at  all.  I  really  am  a  virgin,  I  sweart,  for  all  my  ill  designs  on 

Susan  Warren;  'twas  some  sudden  monstrous  passion  overcame  me,  that  I 

am  most  ashamed  of  now."  Again,  and  bitterly,  he  remembered  his 

own  ill  treatment  on  the  Poseidon.  "Thank  Heav'n  I  was  delayed  till 

prudence  cooled  my  ardor,  else  I'd  done  myself  and  her  an  equal  wrong!" 

"Then  you  really  are  a  virgin  yet?"  Tim  asked  softly,  tightening  his  grip 

on  the  poet's  arm.  "And  ye  still  mean  to  remain  one,  come  what  may?" 

He  spoke  in  a  voice  altogether  different  from  the  one  he'd  used  until 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  349  ] 

then;  it  raised  the  Laureate's  hackles,  and  so  drained  him  with  surprise  that 
he  could  not  speak. 

"  Twas  not  easy  to  believe,"  the  new  voice  added.  'That's  why  I  said 
I'd  take  you  to  'the  swine-girl." 

"I  cannot  believe  my  ears!"  the  poet  gasped. 

"Nor  could  I  mine,  when  Mitchell  told  me  of  his  dinner  guesl  Shall  we 
trust  our  eyes  any  better?" 

He  removed  the  lantern  shade  completely:  in  the  yellow  flare,  which 
drew  the  slow  attention  of  the  swine,  Ebenezer  saw  not  the  bearded,  black- 
haired  "Peter  Sayer"  Burlingame  of  Plymouth—though  this  had  been  in- 
credible enough!— but  the  well-dressed,  smooth-shaven,  periwigged  tutor  of 
St.  Giles  in  the  Fields  and  London. 


22:    NO  GROUND  IS  GAINED  TOWARDS  THE 
LAUREATE'S  ULTIMATE  OBJECTIVE,  BUT  NEITHER 
IS  ANY  LOST 


ONCE,    OR    TWICE,    OR    THRICE  I   AM    DECEIVED?"    THE    POET    EX- 

claimed.  "Is't  Burlingame  that  stands  before  me  now,  or  was't  Burlingame 
I  left  in  Plymouth?  Or  are  the  twain  of  you  impostors?" 

"The  world's  a  happy  climate  for  imposture,"  Burlingame  admitted  with 
a  smile. 

"You  were  so  much  altered  when  I  saw  you  last,  and  now  you've  altered 
back  to  what  you  were!" 

"  Tis  but  to  say  what  oft  I've  said  to  you  ere  now,  Eben:  your  true  and 
constant  Burlingame  lives  only  in  your  fancy,  as  doth  the  pointed  order  of 
the  world.  In  fact  you  see  a  Heraclitean  flux:  whether  'tis  we  who  shift 
and  alter  and  dissolve;  or  you  whose  lens  changes  color,  field,  and  focus;  or 
both  together.  The  upshot  is  the  same,  and  you  may  take  it  or  reject  it." 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head..  "In  sooth  you  are  the  man  I  knew  in  London. 
Yet  I  cannot  believe  Peter  Sayer  was  a  fraud!" 

Burlingame  shrugged,  still  holding  the  lantern.  "Then  say  he  hath 
shaved  his  hair  and  beard  since  then,  as  doth  my  version  of  the  case,  and 
no  longer  affects  a  tone  of  -voice  like  this!9  He  spoke  these  last  words  in 
the  voice  Ebenezer  remembered  from  Plymouth.  "If  you'd  live  in  the  world, 


[  sec  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

my  friend,  you  must  dance  to  some  other  fellow's  tune  or  call  your  own 
and  try  to  make  the  whole  world  step  to't" 

"That's  why  I'm  loath  to  strike  out  on  the  floor"— Ebenezer  laughed— 
"though  I  came  very  near  to't  this  night." 

Henry  laid  his  hand  on  the  poet's  shoulder.  "I  know  the  story,  friend, 
and  the  whore  hath  fleeced  you  for  the  nonce.  But  I'll  get  your  two  pounds 
from  her  by  and  by." 

"No  matter,"  the  poet  smiled  ruefully.  "'Twas  but  a  worthless  ring  I 
gave  her,  and  I  bless  the  hour  she  foiled  my  lecherous  plan."  The  mention 
of  it  recalled  his  friend's  recent  discourse  in  the  dark,  and  he  blushed  and 
laughed  again.  "  'Twas  for  a  tease  you  feigned  that  passion  for  a  pig,  and 
all  the  rest!" 

"Not  a  bit  oft,"  Henry  declared.  "That  is  to  say,  I  have  no  special  love 
for  her,  but  she  is  in  sooth  a  tasty  flitch,  despite  her  age,  and  many's  the 

.•^_  19 

time 

"Stay,  you  tease  me  yet!" 

"Think  what  you  will,"  said  Burlingame.  "The  fact  is,  Eben,  I  share  your 
views  on  innocence/' 

So  surprised  and  pleased  was  Ebenezer  to  hear  this  confession  that  he 
embraced  his  friend  with  both  arms;  but  Burlingame's  response  was  a  move- 
ment so  meaningful  that  the  poet  cried  out  in  alarm  and  retreated  at  once, 
shocked  and  hurt. 

"What  I  mean  to  say,"  Henry  continued  pleasantly,  "is  that  I  too  once 
clung  to  my  virginity,  and  for  the  selfsame  cause  you  speak  of  in  your  poem. 
Yet  anon  I  lost  it,  and  so  committed  me  to  the  world;  'twas  then  I 
vowed,  since  I  was  fallen  from  grace,  I  would  worship  the  Serpent  that 
betrayed  me,  and  ere  I  died  would  know  the  taste  of  every  fruit  the  garden 
grows!  How  is't,  d'you  think,  I  made  a  conquest  of  a  saint  like  Henry  More? 
And  splendid  Newton,  that  I  drove  near  mad  with  love?  How  did  I  get 
my  post  with  Baltimore,  and  wrap  good  Francis  Nicholson  around  my 
finger?" 

"'Sheart,  you  cannot  mean  they  all  are " 

"Nay,"  said  Henry,  anticipating  the  objection.  "That  is,  they  scarcely 
think  so.  But  ere  I  was  twenty  I  knew  more  of  the  world's  passions  than  did 
Newton  of  its  path  in  space.  No  end  of  experimenta  lay  behind  me;  I 
could  have  writ  my  own  Principia  of  the  flesh!  When  Newton  set  his  weights 
and  wires  a-swing,  did  they  know  what  forces  moved  them  as  he  chose?  No 
more  than  Newton  knew,  and  Portia  here— to  name  no  others— what  wires 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  JJ1  ] 

of  nerve  and  amorous  springs  I  triggered,  to  cause  whate'er  reaction  I 
pleased." 

The  Laureate  was  sufficiently  astonished  by  these  revelations  so  that  be- 
fore he  could  assimilate  them  Henry  changed  the  subject  to  one  more  ap- 
parently relevant:  their  separate  crossings  from  Plymouth  and  their  present 
positions.  He  had,  he  declared,  successfully  deceived  Captains  Slye  and 
Scurry  into  believing  that  he  was  John  Coode,  and  in  that  role  had  ac- 
companied them  to  Maryland,  confirming  in  the  process  Coode's  leadership 
of  a  sizable  two-way  smuggling  operation:  under  the  rebel's  direction, 
numerous  shipmasters  ran  Maryland  tobacco  duty-free  to  New  York,  for 
example,  whence  Dutch  confederates  marketed  it  illegally  in  Curagao, 
Surinam,  or  Newfoundland;  or  they  would  export  it  to  the  Barbados,  where 
it  was  transferred  from  bogheads  to  innocent-looking  boxes  and  smuggled 
into  England;  or  they  would  run  it  directly  to  Scotland.  On  return  trips  they 
imported  cargoes  from  foreign  ports  directly  into  Maryland  by  the  simpler 
device  of  bribing  the  local  collectors  with  barrels  of  rum  and  crates  of  scarce 
manufactured  goods. 

"  Tis  in  this  wise/'  he  said,  "Coode  earns  a  large  part  of  the  money 
for  his  grand  seditious  plots,  though  he  doubtless  hath  other  revenues  as 
well."  He  went  on  to  assert  that  from  all  indications  the  conspirator  planned 
a  coup  d'6tat,  perhaps  within  a  year;  various  of  Slye's  and  Scurry's  remarks 
left  little  doubt  of  that,  though  they  gave  no  hint  of  the  agency  through 
which  the  overthrow  was  to  be  effected. 

"Then  how  is  it  thou'rt  here  and  not  on  Nicholson's  doorstep?"  asked 
the  Laureate.  "We  must  inform  him!" 

Burlingame  shook  his  head.  "We  are  not  that  certain  of  his  own  fidelity, 
Eben,  for  all  his  apparent  honesty.  In  any  case  'twould  scarcely  make  him 
more  alert  for  trouble  than  he  is  already.  But  let  me  finish."  He  told  how 
he  had  surreptitiously  disembarked  from  Slye  and  Scurry's  ship  at 
Kecoughtan,  in  Virginia,  lest  the  real  Coode  be  present  at  their  landing 
in  St.  Mary's,  and  had  crossed  to  Maryland  in  his  present  disguise— or  guise, 
if  Ebenezer  preferred— only  a  few  weeks  ago.  Inquiring  after  the  Poseidon 
in  St.  Mary's,  he  had  learned,  to  his  horror,  of  the  Laureate's  abduction 
by  pirates. 

"  'Sbody,  how  I  did  curse  myself  for  not  having  sailed  with  you!"  he 
exclaimed.  "I  could  only  presume  the  wretches  had  done  you  in,  for  one 
cause  or  another " 

"Prithee,  Henry,"  Ebenezer  interrupted,  "was't  you  that  posed  as 
Laureate,  somewhile  after?" 


[252]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Burlingame  nodded.  "You  must  forgive  me.  Twas  but  your  name  I  used, 
on  a  petition:  I  thought  me  how  you'd  died  ere  you  had  the  chance  to 
serve  your  cause,  and  how  old  Coode  would  rejoice  to  hear't.  Then  Nichol- 
son declared  he  meant  to  move  the  government  from  St.  Mary's  to  Anne 
Arundel  Town,  to  take  the  Papish  taint  off  it,  and  some  men  in  St.  Mary's 
sent  round  a  petition  of  protest.  I  saw  Coode's  name  on't  and  so  affixed 
yours  as  well,  to  confound  him/* 

"Dear  friend!"  Tears  came  to  Ebenezer's  eyes.  "That  simple  act  was 
near  the  death  of  mel" 

Astonished,  Burlingame  asked  how,  but  Ebenezer  bade  him  conclude 
his  narration,  after  which  he  would  tell  the  story  of  his  own  eventful  pas- 
sage from  Plymouth  to  where  they  now  sat  in  the  straw. 

"There's  little  more  to  tell,"  Henry  said.  "They  had  put  your  trunk  away 
against  the  time  when  'twill  go  up  for  lawful  sale,  but  I  contrived  to  gain 
possession  of  your  notebook " 

"Thank  Heav'n!" 

"How  many  tears  I  shed  upon  your  poems!  I  have't  in  the  house  this 
minute,  but  I  little  dreamed  I'd  ever  see  its  owner  again." 

While  still  in  St.  Mary's,  he  said,  he  heard  that  Coode  had  learned  of 
the  grand  deception  and  was  so  enraged  that  he  had  barred  Slye  and  Scurry 
from  the  lucrative  smuggling  run  to  punish  them.  In  fact,  fearful  of  traps 
set  by  the  unknown  spy,  Coode  had  been  obliged  to  suspend  virtually  all 
smuggling  operations  in  the  province  for  a  while:  His  Majesty's  tobacco 
revenues  had  seldom  been  so  high. 

"I  knew  the  blackguard  must  needs  find  some  new  income,"  Henry  went 
on,  "and  so  I  followed  him  as  close  as  e'er  I  could.  In  this  wise  I  discovered 
Captain  Mitchell:  he  is  one  of  the  chief est  agents  of  sedition,  and  his  house 
is  oft  the  rebels'  meeting  place." 

"I'm  not  a  whit  surprised,  from  what  I've  heard,"  said  Ebenezer,  and 
then  suddenly  blanched.  "But  i'God,  I  gave  him  my  name,  and  told  him 
the  entire  story  of  my  capture!" 

Burlingame  shook  his  head  in  awe.  "So  he  told  me  when  I  came  in, 
and  thou'rt  the  luckiest  wight  in  all  of  Maryland,  I  swear.  He  thought  the 
twain  of  you  mad  and  took  you  in  for  his  dinner  guests'  amusement. 
Tomorrow  he'd  have  turned  you  out,  and  if  he  dreamed  for  a  minute  you 
were  really  Eben  Cooke,  'twould  be  the  death  of  you  both,  I'm  certain." 

Returning  to  his  story,  he  told  of  his  investigation  of  Mitchell,  which 
had  produced  two  useful  pieces  of  information:  the  man  was  instrumental 
in  some  sinister  new  scheme  of  Coode's,  and  he  had  one  son,  Timothy, 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  353  ] 

whom  he'd  left  behind  in  England  four  years  previously  to  complete  his 
education,  and  who  was  therefore  unknown  in  Maryland. 

"I  resolved  at  once  to  pose  as  Mitchell's  son:  I  had  seen  his  portrait 
hanging  in  the  house,  and  'twas  not  so  far  unlike  me  that  four  years  of 
studious  drinking  couldn't  account  for  the  difference.  E'en  so,  for  prudence's 
sake,  I  forged  Coode's  name  on  a  letter  to  Mitchell,  which  said  Son  Tim 
was  now  in  Coode's  employ  and  was  coming  home  to  do  a  job  of  work 
for's  father.  Tis  e'er  Coode's  wont  to  send  a  cryptic  order,  and  de'il  the 
bit  you  question  what  it  means!  I  followed  close  on  the  letter  and  declared 
myself  Tim  Mitchell,  come  from  London.  It  mattered  not  a  fart  then 
whether  the  Captain  believed  me  to  be  his  son  or  Coode's  agent:  when 
he  questioned  me  I  smiled  and  turned  away,  and  he  questioned  me  no 
more.  Yet  what  the  plot  is,  I've  yet  to  learn." 

"Mayhap  it  hath  to  do  with  opium,"  Ebenezer  suggested,  and  to  Bur- 
lingame's  sharp  look  said  in  defense,  "  Twas  what  he  ruined  the  swine-girl 
with,  and  murthered  his  wife  as  well."  Briefly  he  recounted  Susan  Warren's 
tale,  including  the  wondrous  coincidence  of  Joan  Toast's  presence  and 
Susan's  noble  sacrifice  to  save  her.  All  through  the  little  relation,  however, 
Burlingame  frowned  and  shook  his  head. 

"Is't  aught  short  of  miraculous?"  the  poet  demanded. 

"  Tis  too  much  so,"  said  Henry.  "I've  no  wish  to  be  o'erskeptical,  Eben, 
or  to  dissapoint  your  hopes;  the  wench  herself  is  ruined  with  opium,  I 
grant,  and  it  may  be  all  she  says  is  true  as  Scripture.  But  yonder  by  the 
river  stands  a  pair  of  gravestones,  side  by  side;  the  one's  marked  Pauline 
Mitchell  and  the  other  Elizabeth  Williams.  And  I  swear  the  name  of  Joan 
Toast  hath  not  been  mentioned  in  this  house— at  least  in  my  hearing.  The 
only  wench  I've  known  him  to  woo  is  Susie  Warren  herself,  that  we  all 
have  had  our  sport  with  now  and  again.  Nor  haye  I  seen  a  phial  of  opium 
hereabouts,  albeit  he  may  well  feed  her  privily.  Methinks  she  heard  of 
Joan  Toast  from  your  valet— his  tongue  is  loose  enough.  As  for  the  rest, 
'twas  but  a  tale  to  wring  some  silver  from  you;  when  it  failed  she  feigned 
that  sacrifice  you  spoke  of,  in  hopes  of  doing  better  the  second  time.  Didn't 
you  say  she  was  in  the  kitchen  with  your  valet  all  through  supper?" 

"So  she  was,"  Ebenezer  admitted.  "But  it  seems  to  me  she " 

"Ah  well,"  laughed  Henry,  "thou'rt  no  more  gulled  than  Susan,  in  the 
last  account,  and  if  Joan  Toast's  here  we'll  find  her.  But  tell  me  now  of 
your  own  adventures:  i'faith,  you've  aged  five  years  since  last  I  saw  you!" 

"With  cause  enough,"  sighed  Ebenezer,  and  though  he  was  still  preoc- 
cupied with  thoughts  of  Joan  Toast,  he  related  as  briefly  as  he  could  the 


[  354 1  TBE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

tale  of  his  encounter  with  Bertrand  aboard  the  Poseidon,  the  loss  of  his 
money  through  the  valet's  gambling,  his  ill-treatment  at  the  hands  of  the 
crew,  and  their  capture  by  Thomas  Pound.  At  every  new  disclosure  Bur- 
lingame  shook  his  head  or  murmured  sympathy;  at  the  mention  of  Pound 
he  cried  out  in  amazement— not  only  at  the  coincidence,  but  also  at  the 
implication  that  Coode  had  enlisted  the  support  of  Governor  Andros  of 
Virginia,  by  whom  Pound  was  employed  to  guard  the  coast. 

"And  yet  'tis  not  so  strange,  at  that,"  he  said  on  second  thought.  "There's 
no  love  lost  'twixt  Andros  and  Nicholson  any  more.  But  fancy  you  in 
Pound's  clutches!  Was  that  great  black  knave  Boabdil  still  in  his  crew?" 

"First  mate,"  the  poet  replied  with  a  shudder.  "Dear  Heav'n,  what 
horrors  he  wrought  aboard  the  Cyprian!  The  very  wench  I  spoke  of,  that 
I  climbed  to  in  the  mizzen-rigging,  he  had  near  split  like  an  oyster.  How 
it  pleased  me  that  she  gave  the  fiend  a  poxl" 

"You  had  near  got  one  yourself,"  Burlingame  reminded  him  soberly. 
"And  not  just  once,  but  twice.  Did  ye  see  the  rash  on  Susan  Warren's  skin?" 

"But  you  yourself " 

"Have  had  some  sport  with  her,"  Henry  finished.  "But  I  know  more 
sports  than  one  to  play  with  women."  Awed,  he  rubbed  his  chin.  "I  have 
heard  before  of  whore-ships,  and  thought  'twas  a  sailors'  legend." 

Ebenezer  went  on  to  tell  of  the  collusion  between  Pound  and  Captain 
Meech  of  the  Poseidon,  postponing  mention  of  John  Smith's  secret  diary 
until  later,  and  concluded  with  the  story  of  their  execution,  survival,  and 
discovery  of  Drakepecker  and  Quassapelagh,  the  Anacostin  King. 

"This  is  astounding!"  Henry  cried.  "Your  Drakepecker  is  an  African 

slave,  I  doubt  not,  but  this  Quassapelagh D'you  know  who  he  is, 

Eben?" 

"A  king  of  the  Piscataways,  he  said." 

"Indeed  so,  and  a  disaffected  one!  Last  June  he  murthered  an  English 
wight  named  Lysle  and  was  placed  in  the  charge  of  Colonel  Warren,,  in 
Charles  County,  that  was  still  a  loyal  friend  of  Coode's.  This  Warren  set 
the  salvage  free  one  night,  for  some  queer  cause  or  other,  and  was  demoted 
f or't,  but  they  never  saw  Quassapelagh  after  that.  The  story  was  that  he's 
trying  to  inflame  the  Piscataways  against  Nicholson." 

"  Twere  a  dreadful  thing,  if  true,"  the  Laureate  said,  "but  I  must  vouch 
for  the  man  himself,  Henry;  I  would  our  Maryland  planters  had  the  half 
his  nobility.  Yet  stay,  tell  me  this  ere  I  say  another  word:  what  have  you 
learned  of  Sir  Henry  Burlingame,  your  ancestor?" 

Burlingame  sighed.  "No  more  than  I  knew  in  Plymouth.  Do  you  recall 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  I  355  1 

I  said  the  Journal  was  parceled  out  to  sundry  Papist  Smiths?  Well,  the  first 
of  these  was  Richard  Smith,  right  here  in  Calvert  County,  that  is  Lord 
Baltimore's  surveyor  general.  As  soon  as  I  was  established  here  and  had  re- 
vealed myself  to  Nicholson,  I  set  out  to  collect  the  various  portions,,  so 
that  Cobde  and  all  his  cohorts  could  be  prosecuted.  But  when  I  reached 
Dick  Smith  and  gave  him  the  Governor's  password " 

"He  told  you  Coode  had  long  since  got  his  portion  by  some  ruse," 
Ebenezer  laughed. 

"  Tis  a  thin  joke,  'sheart!  Dick  Smith  had  tried  to  help  some  Papist 
friends  of  his  by  making  'em  deputy  surveyors,  and  after  Governor  Copley 
died,  Coode  saw  his  chance  to  raise  a  cry  of  Popery  and  turn  Smith's 
property  inside  out.  How  did  you  hear  of  it?" 

Ebenezer  withdrew  from  his  pocket  the  few  folded  pages  of  the  diary 
that  remained  to  him.  "How  should  I  not  learn  something  of  intrigue 
myself,  with  such  a  marvelous  tutor?  You'll  see  naught  here  to  read,  but 
these  are  pages  from  the  document  you  speak  of." 

Burlingame  snatched  them  eagerly  and  held  them  to  the  lamplight.  "Ah, 
Christ!"  he  cried.  "There's  scarce  a  word  preserved!" 

"Not  of  the  Assembly  Journal,"  Ebenezer  agreed.  He  told  how  he  had 
stolen  the  papers  from  Pound,  to  that  gentleman's  considerable  dismay, 
and  had  carried  them  with  him  off  the  shallop's  plank.  "  Tis  Maryland's 
ill  luck  we've  lost  the  evidence,"  he  concluded,  and  laughed  again  at  Bur- 
lingame's  chagrin.  "Cheer  yourself,  Henry!  Do  you  think  I'd  keep  such  a 
prize  two  minutes  ere  I  read  the  recto  through?" 

"Praise  God!  You've  learned  to  tease  as  well!" 

Without  more  ador  though  the  night  was  nearly  done,  Ebenezer  de- 
scribed the  secret  history  of  Captain  John  Smith's  voyage  up  the  Chesapeake 
and  narrated,  with  some  embarrassment,  the  entire  tale  of  Hicktopeake's 
voracious  queen. 

"This  is  too  excellent!"  cried  Henry  at  the  end  of  it.  "We  know  Sir 
Henry  came  alive  with  Smith  from  the  town  of  Powhatan  and  went  with 
him  up  the  Bay.  What's  more,  from  all  we've  heard,  each  loathed  the  other 
and  wished  him  ill,  and  there's  no  word  of  Burlingame  in  Smith's  General! 
Historic — d'you  suppose  Smith  did  him  in?" 

"Let's  hope  not,  till  Sir  Henry  sired  a  son,"  Ebenezer  said.  "At  best  he 
could  be  no  closer  than  a  grandsire  to  yourself."  He  then  recalled  what 
Meech  had  proposed  to  Pound— that  if  he  were  Baltimore  he'd  divide  the 
Journal  among  several  colleagues  named  Smith.  "I'd  have  thought  of  it 


[  556  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

sooner  were  I  not  near  dead  for  want  of  sleep;  belike  Pound  made  no 
mention  oft,  Coode  was  so  wroth  with  him/' 

"Or  belike  he  did,  to  help  redeem  himself."  Burlingame  stood  up  and 
stretched.  "In  any  case,  we'd  best  go  fetch  the  rest  without  delay.  Let's 
sleep  now  for  a  while,  and  come  morning  we'll  make  our  plans.'7 

The  Laureate's  desire  for  sleep  overcame  his  trepidations  regarding  Cap- 
tain Mitchell,  and  they  returned  through  the  slumbering  house  to  the  bed- 
chamber where  he  had  so  nearly  lost  his  chastity  some  hours  earlier.  Ber- 
trand  was  not  there. 

"  'Twas  your  Bertrand  I  saw  first,"  Henry  said,  "and  scarce  believed  my 
eyes!  When  he  told  me  you  were  here  I  sent  him  off  to  sleep  with  our 
servants,  so  that  you  and  I  could  talk  in  peace.  In  the  morning  he  can 
go  to  St.  Mary's  in  a  wagon  with  one  of  our  men  and  claim  your  trunk." 

"Aye,  very  good,"  Ebenezer  said,  but  he  had  only  half  heard  Henry's 
words.  Not  long  before,  in  the  barn,  he  had  been  oddly  disturbed  by  his 
friend's  mention  of  Bertrand,  without  quite  knowing  why;  now  he  remem- 
bered what  the  valet  had  told  him  at  their  first  encounter  aboard  the 
Poseidon,  nearly  half  a  year  past:  of  the  several  meetings  between  valet 
and  tutor  not  reported  by  Burlingame,  and  of  Burlingame's  liaison  with 
Anna— which  latter  memory,  understandably,  was  most  unpleasant  in 
the  light  of  what  he  had  just  learned  about  his  friend's  amorous  practices. 

Burlingame  set  down  the  shaded  lantern  and  began  undressing  for  bed. 
"The  wisest  thing  then  would  be  to  have  him  ferry  the  trunk  right  across 
the  Bay  to  Maiden.  'Tis  but  a  matter  of " 

"Henry!"  the  Laureate  broke  in. 

"What  is't?  Why  are  you  so  alarmed?"  He  laughed.  "Get  on,  now,  'tis  not 
long  till  dawn." 

"Where  is  my  commission  from  Lord  Baltimore?" 

For  a  moment  Burlingame  looked  startled;  then  he  smiled.  "So,  your 
servant  told  you  I  have  it?" 

"Nay,"  Ebenezer  said  sadly.  "Only  that  I  had  it  not." 

"Then  doubtless  he  forgot  to  tell  you  'twas  from  him  I  had  to  buy  it," 
Henry  said  testily,  "with  a  five-pound  bribe,  and  merely  to  safeguard  it 
till  Maryland?  How  I  wish  old  Slye  and  Scurry  had  caught  the  wretch  while 
'twas  still  in  his  possession!  Don't  you  understand,  Eben?  That  paper  was 
the  warrant  for  its  bearer's  death!  E'en  so,  your  loyal  valet  made  him  a 
fair  copy,  telling  me  'twas  but  to  boast  of  in  London— I  little  dreamed  he'd 
steal  your  place  on  the  Poseidonl" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  357] 

He  laid  his  hand  on  the  poet's  arm.  "Dear  boy,  'tis  late  in  the  day  for 
quarrels/7 

But  Ebenezer  drew  away.  "Where  is  the  paper  hidden?" 

Burlingame  sighed  and  climbed  into  the  bed.  "In  the  ocean  off  Bermuda, 
forty  fathoms  deep." 

"Whalf 

"Twas  the  one  time  Slye  and  Scurry  played  me  false.  I  heard  them 
plotting  to  search  my  cabin  for  jewels,  that  they  thought  the  king  of  France 
had  given  Coode;  I  had  one  hour  to  draw  up  papers  with  Coode's  name 
and  throw  away  all  others.  Nay,  don't  look  so  forlorn!  I've  long  since 
writ  you  out  another,  in  hopes  you  were  alive." 

"But  how  can  you " 

"As  his  Lordship's  agent  in  such  matters,"  said  Burlingame.  He  got  out 
of  bed  and  with  a  key  from  his  trousers'  pocket  unlocked  a  small  chest 
in  one  corner  of  the  room.  With  the  aid  of  the  lantern  he  selected  one 
from  a  number  of  papers  in  the  chest  and  presented  it  for  Ebenezer's 
inspection.  "Doth  it  please  you?" 

"Why  'tis  the  original!  Thou'rt  teasing  me!" 

Burlingame  shook  his  head.  "  Tis  two  weeks  old  at  most;  I  could  do 
its  like  again  in  five  minutes," 

"I'faith,  then,  thou'rt  the  world's  best  forger  of  hands!" 

"Haply  I  am,  but  you  do  me  too  much  honor  in  this  instance."  He 
smiled:  "'Twas  I  that  penned  the  original." 

"Not  so!"  cried  the  poet.  "I  saw  it  penned  myself!" 

Henry  nodded,  "I  well  remember.  You  fooled  and  fiddled  with  the  rib- 
bons on  your  scabbard  and  had  like  to  piss  for  very  joy." 

"  Twas  Baltimore  himself " 

"You  have  never  seen  Charles  Calvert,"  Burlingame  said.  "Nor  hath  any 
stranger  lately  who  comes  uncalled  for  to  his  door:  'twas  one  of  my  duties 
then  to  greet  such  folk  and  sound  them  out.  When  you  were  announced 
I  begged  his  lordship  to  let  me  disguise  myself  as  him,  as  was  my  wont 
with  uncertain  guests.  'Twas  but  a  matter  of  powdering  my  beard  and  feign- 
ing stiffness  in  the  joints "  He  altered  his  voice  to  sound  exactly  like 

the  one  that  had  narrated  to  Ebenezer  the  history  of  the  Province.  "The 
voice  and  hand  were  childs  play  to  mimic." 

Ebenezer  could  not  contain  his  disappointment;  his  eyes  watered. 

"Ah,  now,  what  doth  it  matter?"  Burlingame  sat  beside  him  on  the  bed 
and  placed  an  arm  across  his  shoulders. "  Twas  for  the  same  reason  I  posed 
as  Peter  Sayer  for  a  while:  to  feel  you  out.  Besides,  Baltimore  heard  and 


[  358  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

seconded  all  I  said.  Your  commission  hath  his  entire  blessing,  I  swear." 
He  gave  Ebenezer  a  squeeze. 

"Tell  me  truly,  Henry,"  the  Laureate  demanded,  moving  clear.  "What 
is  your  relationship  with  Anna?" 

"Ah,  friend  Bertrand  again,"  Burlingame  said  calmly.  "What  do  you 
think  it  to  be,  Eben?" 

"I  think  thou'rt  secretly  in  love  with  her,"  Ebenezer  accused. 

"Thou'rt  in  error^  then,  for  there's  nothing  secret  in't." 

"No  trysts  or  secret  meetings?  No  sweetmeats  and  honeybees?79 

"Dear  friend,  control  yourselfl"  Henry  said  firmly.  ''Your  sister  doth 
me  the  honor  of  returning  my  regard  and  hath  the  good  sense  not  to  in- 
vite her  brother's  and  her  father's  wrath  in  consequence.  As  for  me,  I  love 
her  in  the  same  way  I  love  you— no  more,  no  less." 

"Aye,  and  what  way  is  that?"  the  poet  asked.  "Must  we  not  add  Portia  to 
the  list  and  Dolly  at  the  King  o'  the  Seas,  and  Henry  More,  and  the  barky 
boles  of  trees?  Why  did  my  father  cashier  you  at  St.  Giles?" 

'Thou'rt  overwrought,"  said  Burlingame,  still  seated  on  the  bed.  Let  me 
calm  you." 

Tears  streamed  down  Ebenezer's  cheeks.  "Son  of  Sodom!"  he  cried, 
and  sprang  upon  his  tutor.  "You've  had  my  sister's  maidenhead  and  now 
you  lust  for  mine!" 

Though  both  height  and  initiative  were  on  his  side,  the  Laureate  was 
no  match  for  Burlingame,  who  was  somewhat  heavier,  a  good  deal  more 
co-ordinated,  and  infinitely  more  practiced  in  the  arts  of  combat:  in 
less  than  a  minute  he  had  Ebenezer  pinned  face  down  on  the  bed,  his 
arm  twisted  up  behind  his  back. 

"The  truth  is,  Eben,"  he  declared,  "I  have  yearned  to  have  the  twain  of 
you  since  you  were  twelve,  so  much  I  loved  you,  'Twas  some  inkling  of 
this  love  enraged  old  Andrew,  and  he  cashiered  me.  But  on  my  oath,  your 
sister  is  a  virgin  yet  for  all  of  me.  As  for  yourself,  d'you  think  I  could  not 
force  you  now,  if  I  so  chose?  Yet  I  do  not,  and  would  not;  rape  hath  its  joys, 
but  they  are  not  worth  your  friendship,  or  your  sister's  love." 

He  released  his  grip  and  lay  down,  turning  his  back  to  Ebenezer.  The 
poet,  stricken  by  what  he'd  learned,  made  no  move  to  renew  the  attack 
or  even  to  change  his  position. 

^  'Whatever  could  come  of  a  love  'twixt  me  and  Anna?"  Burlingame  asked. 
"I  have  nor  wealth,  nor  place,  nor  even  parentage.  D'you  think  I'd  waste 
my  seed  on  sows,  if  I  could  sow  a  child  in  Anna  Cooke?  D'you  think  I'd 
flit  about  the  world,  if  I  could  take  her  to  wife?  Methinks  your  friend  Me- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [359] 

Evoy  spoke  the  truth,  Eben:  you  know  naught  of  the  great  real  world!" 
The  Laureate,  in  fact,  at  once  felt  sorry  for  his  friend's  predicament, 
but  because  he  wasn't  sure  to  what  extent  he  ought  to  be  outraged,  and 
because  what  the  disclosures  concerning  Anna  and  Lord  Baltimore  really 
made  him  feel  was  a  sort  of  bitter  melancholy,  neither  his  sympathy  nor 
his  anger  found  a  voice.  He  did  not  see  how,  in  the  light  of  all  this, 
he  could  endure  ever  to  face  Burlingame  again,  much  less  sleep  in  the 
same  bed  with  him.  What  could  they  say  to  each  other  now?  He  felt 
unspeakably  deceived  and  put  upon— a  by  no  means  wholly  unpleasurable 
feeling.  Face  buried  in  the  pillow  and  eyes  wet  with  pity  for  himself,  he 
recalled  one  of  the  wonderful  dreams  he  had  dreamed  while  senseless  in 
the  Poseidon's  foVsle:  Burlingame  and  Anna  side  by  side  at  the  vessel's 
rail,  waving  to  him  where  he  swam  in  the  flat,  green,  tepid  sea.  So  stirring 
was  the  vision  that  he  gave  himself  over  to  it  entirely;  closed  his  eyes,  and 
let  the  sea  wash  warmly  by  his  loins  and  hams. 


23:    IN  HIS  EFFORTS  TO  GET  TO  THE  BOTTOM  OF 
THINGS  THE  LAUREATE  COMES  WITHIN  SIGHT  OF 
MALDEN,  BUT  SO  FAR  FROM  ARRIVING  THERE, 
NEARLY  FALLS  INTO  THE  STARS 


IT  WAS  ALREADY  WELL  INTO  THE  MORNING  WHEN  THE  LAUREATE  AWOKE: 

the  thin  fall  sunshine  struck  his  eyelids,  and  he  was  mortified  to  under- 
stand that  for  the  first  time  since  early  childhood  he  had  wet  the  bed. 
He  dared  not  move,  for  fear  of  waking  Burlingame  and  discovering  his 
shame.  How  to  conceal  it?  He  considered  accidentally  spilling  the  water 
pitcher  onto  the  bed,  but  rejected  the  scheme  as  insufficiently  convincing. 
The  only  other  alternative  was  to  absent  himself  stealthily  from  the  prem- 
ises, since  he  could  not  in  any  case  have  further  dealings  with  his  friend,  and 
to  strike  out  on  his  own  for  Maiden  before  anyone  was  awake;  but  he 
lacked  the  daring  for  such  a  move  in  the  first  place,  and  also  had  no  way 
of  securing  food  and  transportation  for  himself  and  Bertrand. 

While  considering  and  rejecting  these  courses  of  action  he  fell  asleep 
again,  and  this  time  it  was  mid-morning  when  he  woke.  Burlingame,  in 
the  interval,  had  donned  his  clothes  and  left,  and  on  the  table  with  the 
pitcher  and  bowl  were  a  piece  of  soap,  a  razor,  a  complete  outfit  of  gentle- 


[  560  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

man's  clothing,  including  shoes,  hat,  and  sword,  and-wonder  of  wonders 
—the  ledger-book  acquired  from  Ben  Bragg  at  the  Sign  of  the  Raven! 
The  Laureate  rejoiced  to  behold  the  gift,  and  for  all  his  shock  and  disap- 
pointment of  the  night  just  past,  he  could  not  but  feel  a  certain  warmth 
for  his  benefactor.  He  sprang  out  of  bed,  stripped  off  the  clammy,  vermin- 
ous rags  he'd  worn  day  and  night  since  his  capture  by  the  pirates,  and 
scrubbed  himself  ferociously  from  top  to  toe.  Then,  before  shaving,  he  could 
not  resist  rereading  the  poems  in  his  notebook— especially  the  hymn  to 
chastity,  which,  whether  Susan  Warren  had  been  lying  or  not,  was  given 
a  heightened  significance  by  her  mention  of  Joan  Toast  and  by  the 
Laureate's  late  adventure.  As  he  shaved  he  repeated  the  stanzas  over  and 
over,  with  a  growing  sense  of  physical  and  spiritual  well-being.  It  was  a 
splendid  morning  for  rededication— high  and  clear  and  fresh  as  April,  de- 
spite the  season.  Off  came  the  beard  and  on  went  the  clothes,  which  if  not 
a  tailored  fit  were  at  least  of  good  quality;  except  for  his  sunburned  face 
and  hands  and  his  somewhat  shaggy  hair,  he  looked  and  felt  more  like  a 
Laureate  when  he  was  done  than  he  had  at  any  time  since  leaving  London. 
He  could  scarcely  wait  to  set  out  for  Maiden,  more  particularly  since  Joan 
Toast  might  well  be  waiting  there  for  him! 

Now  his  blond  brows  contracted,  and  his  features  ticked  and  twitched: 
there  remained  still  the  problem  of  passing  safely  out  of  Captain  Mitchell's 
clutches  and  of  deciding  on  an  attitude  toward  Burlingame.  The  first 
seemed  infinitely  simpler  than  the  second,  which  was  complicated  not  only 
by  his  uncertainty  about  how  he  should  react  to  his  friend's  disclosures, 
but  also  by  his  embarrassment  at  wetting  the  bed,  which  childishness  Henry 
had  almost  surely  observed,  and  his  gratitude  for  the  gift  of  clothing.  In 
fact,  the  more  he  considered  possible  attitudes  to  adopt,  the  more  perplex- 
ing seemed  the  problem,  and  he  ended  by  returning  to  the  window  sill 
and  staring  distractedly  at  the  twin  gravestones  down  by  the  riverbank. 

After  a  while  he  heard  someone  mount  the  stairs^  and  Henry  himself 
thrust  his  head  into  the  chamber. 

"Shake  a  leg,  there,  Master  Laureate,  or  you'll  miss  your  breakfast!  Hi, 
what  a  St.  Paul's  courtier!" 

Ebenezer  blushed.  "Henry,  I  must  confess " 

"Sfcftft,"  warned  Burlingame.  "The  name  is  Timothy  Mitchell,  sir."  He 
entered  the  room  and  closed  the  door.  "They're  waiting  belowstairs,  so 
I  must  speak  quickly.  I've  sent  your  man  off  to  fetch  your  trunk  in  St. 
Mary's:  he'll  get  to  Maiden  before  us  and  make  things  ready  for  you. 
Hark,  now:  there  is  an  Edward  Cooke  in  Dorchester  County,  a  drunken 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  361  ] 

cuckold  of  a  sot-weed  planter;  two  years  ago  he  complained  of  his  wife's 
adulteries  in  a  petition  to  Governor  Copley  and  was  the  butt  of  so  much 
teasing  that  he  hath  drowned  himself  in  drink.  I  have  told  Bill  Mitchell 
thou'rt  this  same  poor  wretch,  that  in  your  cups  are  given  to  playing  the 
Laureate,  and  he  believes  me.  Act  sober  and  shamed  this  morning,  and 
there's  naught  to  fear.  Make  haste,  nowl" 

And  without  allowing  the  poet  time  to  protest,  Henry  led  him  by  the 
arm  toward  the  stairs,  still  talking  in  an  urgent,  quiet  voice: 

"Your  friend  the  swine-girl  hath  flown  the  coop,  and  Mitchell  declares 
shell  make  her  way  to  Cambridge  with  the  silver  he  thinks  you  gave  her. 
I'm  to  take  horse  at  once  to  find  and  to  fetch  her;  what  you  must  do 
is  beg  his  pardon  and  volunteer  to  aid  me  in  the  search  by  way  of  making 
good  your  sins.  We  can  fetch  the  rest  of  the  Journal  on  our  way  to  Maiden, 
and  Til  deliver  it  to  Nicholson  when  I  return."  They  approached  the  dining- 
room.  "  'Sheart,  now,  don't  forget:  I'm  Tim  Mitchell  and  thou'rt  Edward 
Cooke  of  Dorset/' 

Ebenezer  had  no  opportunity  either  to  assent  to  or  protest  the  course 
of  events:  he  found  himself  propelled  into  the  dining-room,  where  Captain 
Mitchell  and  a  few  of  the  previous  evening's  guests  were  breakfasting  on 
rum  and  a  meat  identified  by  Burlingame  as  broiled  rasher  of  infant  bear. 
They  regarded  Ebenezer,  some  with  amusement  and  others  with  a  certain 
rancor,  which,  however,  observing  that  he  was  Timothy's  friend,  they  did 
not  express  overtly.  When  the  two  new  arrivals  were  seated  and  served, 
Burlingame  announced  to  the  group  what  he  had  already  told  Mitchell— 
that  their  distinguished  visitor  was  not  Ebenezer  Cooke  the  poet,  but  Ed- 
ward Cooke  the  cuckold.  The  news  occasioned  some  minutes  of  ribaldry, 
following  which  Ebenezer  made  a  pretty  speech  of  apology  for  his  imposture 
and  other  unseemly  deportment,  and  volunteered  to  aid  Timothy  in  his 
search  for  the  fugitive  servant. 

"As't  please  ye,"  Captain  Mitchell  grumbled,  and  gave  some  last  in- 
structions to  Burlingame:  "Look  ye  well  on  old  Ben  Spurdance's  place, 
Timmy.  'Tis  a  den  o'  thieves  and  whores,  and  belike  'tis  there  she's  flown 
again.  She  aims  to  join  her  sister  puddletrotters  now  that  Cambridge  court 
is  sitting." 

"That  I  shall,"  smiled  Burlingame. 

"Take  care  ye  don't  dally  by  the  way,  and  fetch  Miss  Susan  hither 
within  the  week,  for  I've  a  word  to  say  to  her.  I'll  have  an  end  to  her 
drunkenness  and  leave-takings,  by  Heav'n!  Every  simpleton  that  comes 
through  pays  her  two  pounds  for  a  squint  at  her  backside  and  swallows 


[  362  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

her  cock-and-bull  story  into  the  bargain,  and  'tis  I  must  bear  the  cost  o* 
fetching  her  home  againl" 

As  he  spoke  he  glared  at  Ebenezer  so  accusingly  that  the  poet  turned 
crimson,  to  the  merriment  of  the  other  guests,  and  offered  further  to  bear 
the  charge  of  Timothy's  expedition.  He  was  happy  enough  to  leave  the 
table  when  the  lengthy  breakfast  was  finally  done,  although  he  could  not 
contemplate  with  pleasure  the  prospect  of  setting  out  for  the  Eastern  Shore 
with  Burlingame.  Once  on  the  road,  alone  with  him,  it  would  be  necessary 
to  come  to  some  sort  of  terms  with  the  problem  put  in  abeyance  by  the 
urgency  of  their  first  encounter  that  morning:  what  their  future  relation- 
ship was  to  be.  That  it  could  remain  what  it  had  been  thitherto,  and  the 
revelations  of  the  night  before  go  undiscussed,  was  unthinkable! 

Yet  when  near  noontime  they  set  out  on  their  journey— Ebenezer  riding 
an  ancient  roan  mare  of  Captain  Mitchell's  and  Burlingame  a  frisky  three- 
year-old  gelding  of  his  own— he  could  think  of  no  gambit  for  initiating  the 
discussion  that  he  was  courageous  enough  to  use,  and  Burlingame  showed 
no  inclination  to  speak  of  anything  less  impersonal  than  the  unseasonably 
warm  day  (which  he  said  was  called  "Indian  summer"  by  the  colonials), 
the  occasional  planters  or  Indians  whom  they  encountered  on  the  road, 
and  the  purpose  of  their  route. 

"Calvert  County  is  just  across  the  Chesapeake  from  Dorset/'  he  explained, 
as  cheerfully  as  if  there  were  no  problem  between  theni  at  all.  "If  we  Bailed 
due  east  from  here  we'd  land  very  near  Cooke's  Point.  But  what  we'll  do 
is  sail  a  bit  northeastwards  to  Tom  Smith's  place  in  Talbot,  just  above 
Dorchester;  he's  the  wight  that  hath  the  next  piece  of  the  Journal." 

"Whate'er  you  think  best,"  Ebenezer  replied,  and  despite  his  wish  to 
get  matters  out  in  the  open,  he  found  himself  talking  instead  about  Susan 
Warren,  to  whom,  he  declared,  he  was  grateful  for  breaking  her  pledge 
to  him,  and  whose  flight  to  her  father  he  pleaded  with  Burlingame  not  to 
intercept.  Burlingame  agreed  not  to  search  for  the  swine-girl  at  all,  and 
changed  the  subject  to  something  equally  remote  from  what  most  occupied 
the  poet's  mind.  Thus  they  rode  for  two  or  three  hours  into  the  afternoon, 
their  horses  gaited  to  a  leisurely  walk,  and  with  every  new  idle  exchange 
of  remarks  it  became  increasingly  difficult,  for  Ebenezer  to  broach  the 
subject,  until  by  the  time  they  reached  their  most  immediate  destination 
—a  boatlanding  on  the  Chesapeake  Bay  side  of  Calvert  County— he  re- 
alized that  to  introduce  the  matter  now  would  make  him  appear  ridicu- 
lous, and  with  a  sigh  he  vowed  to  have  it  out  with  his  former  tutor  first 
thing  next  morning,  if  not  at  bedtime  that  very  night 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  363  ] 

Burlingame  hired  a  pinnace  to  ferry  them  and  their  animals  to  Talbot, 
and  they  made  the  ten-mile  crossing  without  incident.  As  they  entered  the 
wide  mouth  of  the  Choptank  River,  which  divides  the  counties  of  Talbot 
and  Dorchester,  Burlingame  pointed  to  a  wooded  neck  of  land  nearly  two 
miles  off  to  starboard  and  said,  "If  I  not  be  far  wide  of  the  mark,  friend, 
that  point  o'er  yonder  is  your  own  Cooke's  Point,  and  Maiden  stands  some- 
where among  those  trees/' 

"Dear  Heav'n!"  cried  Ebenezer.  "You  didn't  say  we  would  pass  so  near! 
Pray  land  me  there  now  and  join  me  when  your  work  is  done!" 

"  Twould  be  twice  imprudent,"  Henry  replied.  "For  one  thing,  thou'rt 
not  yet  accustomed  to  dealing  with  provincial  types,  as  I  am;  for  another, 
'twere  unseemly  that  their  Lord  and  Laureate  should  arrive  alone  and  un- 
escorted, don't  you  think?" 

"Then  you  must  come  with  me,  Henry/'  Ebenezer  pleaded,  and  the 
certain  surliness  in  his  voice,  which  throughout  the  day  had  been  the  only 
token  of  his  psychic  tribulation,  finally  disappeared.  "You  can  get  the 
Journal  later,  can  you  not?" 

But  Burlingame  shook  his  head.  "That  were  no  less  imprudent,  Eben. 
There  are  two  pieces  of  the  Journal  yet  to  find:  the  one  with  Tom  Smith  in 
Talbot,  the  other  with  a  William  Smith  in  Dorset.  Tom  Smith  I  know  by 
sight,  and  where  he  lives;  we  can  get  his  part  tomorrow  and  be  off  to 
Cambridge.  Put  this  William  Smith  of  Dorset  is  an  entire  stranger  to  me: 
in  the  time  'twill  take  to  find  him,  Coode  could  kill  and  rob  the  twain. 
Besides,  in  Oxford,  where  we'll  land,  there  is  a  barber  that  shall  trim  your 
hair  or  shave  you  for  a  periwig,  at  my  expense." 

To  such  reason  and  graciousness  Ebenezer  could  offer  no  objection, 
though  his  heart  sank  as  they  dropped  Cooke's  Point  astern  and  turned 
north  up  the  smaller  Tred  Avon  River  to  a  village  called  variously  Oxford, 
Thread  Haven,  and  Williamstadt.  There  they  disembarked  and  paid  calls 
first  on  the  promised  barber— whom  Ebenezer  on  a  comradely  impulse 
directed  to  trim  his  natural  hair  in  the  manner  of  the  Province  rather  than 
shave  it  for  a  periwig— and  then  to  an  inn  near  the  wharf,  where  they  dined 
on  cold  roast  mallard  and  beer,  also  at  Burlingame's  expense.  Assuming 
that  they  would  sleep  there  as  well,  the  Laureate  vowed  to  review  the 
whole  question  of  Henry's  relations  with  Anna  as  soon  as  they  retired  for 
the  night,  in  order  to  determine  once  and  for  all  how  he  should  feel  about 
it;  but  Henry  himself  frustrated  this  resolve  by  declaring,,  after  supper,  that 
sufficient  daylight  remained  for  them  to  reach  the  house  of  Thomas  Smith, 


[  564  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

which  lay  only  five  or  six  miles  out  of  Oxford,  and  proposing  that  they 
lose  no  time  in  laying  hands  upon  his  portion  of  the  Journal. 

"Tor  I  swear,"  he  said,  wiping  his  mouth  upon  his  coat  sleeve,  "so  damn- 
ing is  this  evidence  for  Coode,  he'll  stop  at  naught  to  get  it,  nor  scoff  at 
any  hint  of  its  location.  Let's  begone."  He  rose  from  the  table  and  started 
for  the  horses;  not  until  he  was  halfway  to  the  door  did  he  look  back  to 
see  that  Ebenezer,  instead  of  following  after,  still  sat  before  his  empty 
plate,  wincing  and  sighing  and  ticking  his  tongue. 

"Ah,  then,"  he  said,  coming  back,,  "thou'rt  distraught.  Is't  that  you  came 
so  near  your  estate  and  did  not  reach  it?" 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head  in  a  manner  not  clearly  either  affirmative 
or  negative.  "That  is  but  a  part  oft,  Henry;  you  go  at  such  a  pace,  I  have 
no  time  to  think  things  through  as  they  deserve!  I  cannot  collect  my  wits 
e'en  to  think  of  all  the  questions  I  would  ask,  much  less  explore  your  an- 
swers. How  can  I  know  what  I  must  do  and  where  I  stand?" 

Burlingame  laid  his  arm  across  the  poet's  shoulders  and  smiled.  "What 
is't  you  describe,  my  friend,  if  not  man's  lot?  He  is  by  mindless  lust 
engendered  and  by  mindless  wrench  expelled,  from  the  Eden  of  the  womb 
to  the  motley,  mindless  world.  He  is  Chance's  fool,  the  toy  of  aimless 
Nature— a  mayfly  flitting  down  the  winds  of  Chaos!" 

"You  mistake  my  meaning,"  Ebenezer  said,  lowering  his  eyes. 

Burlingame  was  undaunted:  his  eyes  glittered.  "Not  by  much,  methinks. 
Once  long  ago  we  sat  like  this,  at  an  inn  near  Magdalene  College— do 
you  remember?  And  I  said,  'Here  we  sit  upon  a  blind  rock  hurtling  through 
a  vacuum,  racing  to  the  grave/  'Tis  our  fate  to  search,  Eben,  and  do  we  seek 
our  $oul>  what  we  find  is  a  piece  of  that  same  black  Cosmos  whence  we 
sprang  and  through  which  we  fall:  the  infinite  wind  of  space  .  .  ." 

In  fact  a  night  wind  had  sprung  up  and  was  buffeting  the  inn.  Ebenezer 
shivered  and  clutched  the  edge  of  the  table.  "But  there  is  so  much  un- 
answered and  unresolved!  It  dizzies  me!" 

"Many!"  laughed  Henry.  "If  you  saw  it  clear  enough  'twould  not  dizzy 
you:  'twould  drive  you  mad!  This  inn  here  seems  a  little  isle  in  a  sea  of 
madness,  doth  it  not?  Blind  Nature  howls  without,  but  here  'tis  calm- 
how  dare  we  leave?  Yet  lookee  round  you  at  these  men  that  dine  and 
play  at  cards,  as  if  the  sky  were  their  mother's  womb!  They  remind  me  of  the 
chickens  I  once  saw  fed  to  a  giant  snake  in  Africa:  when  the  snake  struck 
one  the  others  squawked  and  fluttered,  but  a  moment  after  they  were 
scratching  about  for  corn,  or  standing  on  his  very  back  to  preen  their 
feathers!  How  is't  these  men  don't  run  a-gibbering  down  the  streets,  if  not 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  365  ] 

that  their  minds  are  lulled  to  sleep?"  He  pressed  the  poet's  arm.  "You  know 
as  well  as  I  that  human  work  can  be  magnificent;  but  in  the  face  of 
what's  out  yonder"— he  gestured  skywards— "  'tis  the  industry  of  Bed- 
lam! Which  sees  the  state  of  things  more  clearly:  the  cock  that  preens 
on  the  python's  back,  or  the  lunatic  that  trembles  in  his  cell?" 

Ebenezer  sighed.  "Yet  I  fail  to  see  the  relevance  of  this;  Tis  not  germane 
at  all  to  what  I  had " 

"Not  germane?"  Burlingame  exclaimed.  "'Tis  the  very  root  and  stem 
oft!  Two  things  alone  can  save  a  man  from  madness."  He  indicated  the 
other  patrons  of  the  inn.  "Dull-headedness  is  one,  and  far  the  commoner: 
the  truth  that  drives  men  mad  must  be  sought  for  ere  it's  found,  and  it 
eludes  the  doltish  or  myopic  hunter.  But  once  'tis  caught  and  looked  on, 
whether  by  insight  or  instruction,  the  captor's  sole  expedient  is  to  force 
his  will  upon't  ere  it  work  his  ruin!  Why  is't  you  set  such  store  by  innocence 
and  rhyming,  and  I  by  searching  out  my  father  and  battling  Coode?  One 
must  needs  make  and  seize  his  soul,  and  then  cleave  fast  to't,  or  go  babbling 
in  the  corner;  one  must  choose  his  gods  and  devils  on  the  run,  quill  his  own 
name  upon  the  universe,  and  declare, '  'Tis  I,  and  the  world  stands  such-a- 
way!'  One  must  assert,  assert,  assert,  or  go  screaming  mad.  What  other 
course  remains?" 

"One  other,"  Ebenezer  said  with  a  blush.  "  'Tis  the  one  I  flee .  .  ." 

"What?  Ah,  'sheart,  indeed!  The  state  I  found  you  in  at  college!  How 
many  have  I  seen  like  that  in  Bedlam— wide-eyed,  feculent,  and  blind  to 
the  world!  Some  boil  their  life  into  a  single  gesture  and  repeat  it  o'er 
and  o'er,  others  are  so  far  transfixed,  their  limbs  remain  where'er  you  place 
'em,  still  others  take  on  false  identities:  Alexander,  or  the  Pope  in  Rome, 
or  e'en  the  Poet  Laureate  of  Maryland " 

Ebenezer  looked  up,  uncertain  whether  it  was  he  or  the  impostors  whom 
Burlingame  referred  to. 

"The  upshot  oft  is,"  his  friend  concluded,  "if  you'd  escape  that  fate 
you  must  embrace  me  or  reject  me,  and  the  course  we  are  committed  to, 
despite  the  shifting  lights  that  we  appear  in,  just  as  you  must  embrace  your 
Self  as  Poet  and  Virgin,  regardless,  or  discard  it  for  something  better."  He 
stood  up.  "In  either  case  don't  seek  whole  understanding— the  search  were 
fruitless,  and  there  is  no  time  for't.  Will  you  come  with  me  now,  or  stay?" 

Ebenezer  frowned  and  squinted.  "I'll  come,"  he  said  finally,  and  went 
out  with  Burlingame  to  the  horses.  The  night  was  wild,  but  not  unpleasant: 
a  warm,  damp  wind  roared  out  of  the  southwest,  churned  the  river  to  a 


[  366  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

froth,  bent  the  pines  like  whips,  and  drove  a  scud  across  the  stars.  Both 
men  looked  up  at  the  splendid  sight. 

"Forget  the  word  sky"  Burlingame  said  off-handedly,  swinging  up  on 
his  gelding,  "'tis  a  blinder  to  your  eyes.  There  is  no  dome  of  heaven 
yonder." 

Ebenezer  blinked  twice  or  thrice:  with  the  aid  of  these  instructions,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  saw  the  night  sky.  The  stars  were  no  longer 
points  on  a  black  hemisphere  that  hung  like  a  sheltering  roof  above 
his  head;  the  relationship  between  them  he  saw  now  in  three  dimen- 
sions, of  which  the  one  most  deeply  felt  was  depth.  The  length  and 
breadth  of  space  between  the  stars  seemed  trifling  by  comparison:  what 
struck  him  now  was  that  some  were  nearer,  others  farther  out,  and  others 
unimaginably  remote.  Viewed  in  this  manner,  the  constellations  lost  their 
sense  entirely;  their  spurious  character  revealed  itself,  as  did  the  false  pre- 
supposition of  the  celestial  navigator,  and  Ebenezer  felt  bereft  of  orienta- 
tion. He  could  no  longer  think  of  up  and  down:  the  stars  were  simply  out 
there,  as  well  below  him  as  above,  and  the  wind  appeared  to  howl  not 
from  the  Bay  but  from  the  firmament  itself,  from  the  endless  corridors 
of  space. 

"Madness!"  Henry  whispered. 

Ebenezer's  .stomach  churned;  he  swayed  in  the  saddle  and  covered  his 
eyes.  For  a  swooning  moment  before  he  turned  away  it  seemed  that  he 
was  heels  over  head  on  the  bottom  of  the  planet,  looking  down  on  the 
stars  instead  of  up,  and  that  only  by  dint  of  clutching  his  legs  about  the 
roan  mare's  girth  and  holding  fast  to  the  saddlebow  with  both  his  hands 
did  he  keep  from  dropping  headlong  into  those  vasty  reaches! 


24:    THE  TRAVELERS  HEAR  ABOUT  THE  SINGULAR 
MARTYRDOM  OF  FATHER  JOSEPH  FITZMAURICE,  S.J.: 
A  TALE  LESS  RELEVANT  IN  APPEARANCE  THAN  IT  WILL 
PROVE  IN  FACT 


IT  REQUIRED  LESS  THAN  AN  HOUR'S  WINDY  RIDE  FOR  EBENEZER  AND  HENRY 

Burlingame  to  reach  their  destination;  they  traveled  four  miles  eastward 
from  the  village  of  Oxford  and  then  turned  south  for  a  mile  or  so  along 
a  path  leading  through  woods  and  tobacco-fields  to  a  small  log  dwelling 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  367  } 

on  Island  Creek,  which,  like  the  larger  Tred  Avon  River,  debouched  into 
the  Great  Choptank. 

"  'Tis  an  uncommon  fellow  you'll  meet  here,"  Burlingame  said  as  they 
approached.  "He  is  a  kind  of  Coode  himself,  but  on  the  side  of  the  angels. 
A  valuable  man/* 

"Thomas  Smith?"  asked  Ebenezer.  "I  don't  believe  Charles  Calvert  told 

me  aught "  He  stopped  and  grimaced.  "That  is  to  say,  I  have  ne'er 

heard  tell  of  him." 

"Nay/'  laughed  Henry,  "I  haply  made  no  mention  of  him.  He  is  a 
Jesuit  to  the  marrow,  and  so  'tis  certain  Thomas  Smith  is  not  his  real 
name.  But  for  all  that,  he's  a  great  good  fellow  that  loves  his  beer  and 
horses.  Each  Friday  night  he  hath  a  drinking  bout  with  Lillingstone  the 
minister  (the  same  that  helped  me  steal  Coode's  letters  two  years  past, 
in  Plymouth  harbor);  'twas  after  one  such  bout  they  rode  a  horse  into 
Talbot  courthouse  and  called  it  Lambeth  Palace!  Some  say  this  Smith  came 
down  from  Canada  to  spy  for  the  French " 

"I'faith,  and  Baltimore  trusts  him  with  the  Journal?" 

Burlingame  shrugged.  "They  have  loyalties  larger  than  France  and  Eng- 
land, I  daresay.  At  any  rate  'tis  precious  little  spying  Smith  can  do  herea- 
bouts, and  we've  ample  demonstrations  of  his  spirit:  last  year  he  was 
charged  by  Governor  Copley  with  seditious  speech,  along  with  Colonel 
Sayer,  and  barely  missed  arrest." 

The  term  larger  loyalties  Ebenezer  found  disquieting,  but  he  was  still  too 
much  preoccupied  with  his  own  problems  to  ask  Burlingame  whether  it 
was  the  cause  of  Justice  or,  say,  international  Roman  Catholicism  that  he 
referred  to.  They  tethered  their  horses,  and  Burlingame  rapped  three  times, 
slowly  and  sharply,  on  the  cabin  door. 

"Yes?  Who  is't  there?" 

"Tim  Mitchell,  friend,"  said  Burlingame. 

"Tim  Mitchell,  is't?  I've  heard  that  name."  The  door  opened  enough  to 
permit  the  man  inside  to  raise  a  lantern,  but  was  still  chained  fast  to  the 
jamb.  "What  might  you  want  o'  me  this  time  of  night?" 

"I'm  fetching  a  stray  horse  to  her  master,"  Burlingame  replied,  winking 
at  Ebenezer. 

"Is  that  so,  now?  Tis  a  deal  o'  trouble  for  a  small  reward,  is't  not?" 

"I'll  have  my  reckoning  in  Heaven,  Father;  for  the  nonce  'twill  suffice 
me  that  the  man  shall  have  his  mare  again." 

Ebenezer  had  supposed  that  Burlingame  was,  for  reasons  of  delicacy. 


[  368  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

speaking  allegorically  of  Susan  Warren's  escape,  but  at  the  end  he  recog- 
nized the  pass  phrase  of  the  Jacobites. 

"Ha!"  cried  the  man  inside,  unlatching  the  door  and  swinging  it  wide. 
"He  shall  in  sooth,  if  the  Society  of  Jesus  hath  not  wholly  lost  its  skill! 
Come  in,  sir,  pray  come  in!  I'd  not  have  been  so  chary  if  there  were  not 
two  of  you." 

Their  host,  Ebenezer  found  upon  entering  the  cabin,  was  by  no  means 
as  fearsome  as  his  deep-bass  voice  and  the  tale  of  his  exploits  suggested: 
he  stood  not  much  over  five  feet  tall;  his  build  was  slight,  and  his  ruddy 
fac^-more  Teutonic  than  Gallic  above  his  clerical  collar— had,  despite  his 
nearly  fifty  years,  the  boyish  look  that  often  marks  the  celibate.  The  cabin 
itself  was  clean  and,  except  for  a  wine  bottle  on  the  table  and  a  row  of 
little  casks  along  the  chimneypiece,  as  austerely  furnished  as  a  monk's 
cell  For  all  his  carousing,  the  priest  appeared  to  be  something  of  a  scholar: 
the  walls  were  lined  with  more  books  than  the  Laureate  had  seen  in  one 
room  since  leaving  Magdalene,  and  around  the  wine  bottle  were  spread 
other  books,  copious  papers,  and  writing  equipment. 

"This  young  man  is  Mr.  Eben  Cooke,  from  London."  Burlingame  said. 
"He  is  a  poet  and  a  friend  of  mine." 

"Indeed,  a  poet!"  Smith  shook  Ebenezer's  hand  vigorously.  He  had  the 
habit— doubtless  due  in  part  to  his  small  stature,  but  suggestive  as  well  of 
a  certain  effeminacy— of  rising  on  his  toes  and  widening  his  clear  blue 
eyes  when  he  spoke.  "How  uncommonly  delightful,,  sir!  And  doth  he  rhyme 
ad  majorem  Dei  gloriam,  as  he  ought?" 

Ebenezer  could  think  of  no  properly  witty  rejoinder  to  this  tease,  but 
Burlingame  said,  "'Tis  more  ad  majorem  Baltimorensi  gtoriam,  Father: 
he  hath  the  post  of  Maryland  Laureate  from  Charles  Calvert." 

"Better  and  better!" 

"As  for  his  loyalty,  have  no  fear  oft." 

The  priest  let  go  a  booming  laugh.  "I  shan't  now,  Mr.  Mitchell;  that 
I  shan't,  for  Satan  himself  hath  his  fiendish  loyalties!  'Tis  the  object  oft 
I  fear,  sir,  not  its  presence!" 

Burlingame  urged  him  to  calm  his  fears,  but  when  he  declared  the  pur- 
pose of  their  visit,  producing  authorization  from  Governor  Nicholson  to 
collect  the  precious  papers,  the  Jesuit's  face  showed  still  some  reservation. 
"I  have  my  piece  o'  the  Journal  hidden,  right;  enough,"  he  said,  "and  I 
know  you  for  an  agent  of  our  cause.  But  what  proof  have  we  of  your 
friend's  fidelity?" 

"Methinks  my  post  were  proof  enough,"  Ebenezer  said. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  369  ] 

"Of  allegiance,  aye,  but  not  fidelity.  Would  you  die  to  advance  our  cause?" 

"He  hath  come  near  to  that  already,"  Burlingame  said,  and  told  their 
host  briefly  of  the  Laureate's  adventure  with  the  pirates. 

"The  saintly  look  is  on  him,  that  I'll  grant/'  said  the  priest.  "Tis  but 
a  question  of  what  cause  he'll  be  a  martyr  to,  I  suppose." 

Ebenezer  laughed  uncomfortably.  "Then  I'll  confess  I  would  not  die 
for  Lord  Baltimore,  much  as  I  favor  his  cause  and  loathe  John  Coode's." 

The  priest  raised  his  eyebrows.  Burlingame  said  at  once,  "Now  there's 
a  proper  answer,  sir:  a  martyr  hath  his  uses  when  he's  dead,  but  alive  he's 
oft  a  nuisance  to  his  cause."  He  assumed  a  tone  of  raillery.  "That  is  the 
reason  why  there  are  no  Jesuit  martyrs." 

"In  sooth  it  is,,  though  we  can  claim  one  or  two.  But  nom  de  Dieu,  for- 
give my  rudeness!  Sit  down  and  have  some  wine!"  He  waved  them  to  the 
table  and  set  about  clearing  it  of  papers.  "Correspondence  from  the  Society," 
he  explained,  observing  Ebenezer's  curiosity,  and  showed  them  some  pages 
of  finely-written  Latin  script.  "I  dabble  in  ecclesiastical  history,  and  just 
now  am  writing  a  relation  of  the  Jesuit  mission  in  Maryland,  from  1634 
to  the  present  day.  'Tis  a  sixty-year  Iliad  in  itself,  I  swear,  and  the  fortress 
hath  yet  to  fall!" 

"How  very  interesting,"  Ebenezer  murmured.  He  was  aware  that  his 
earlier  blundering  remark  had  been  ill-taken,  and  looked  for  a  way  to 
atone  for  it. 

The  priest  fetched  two  extra  glasses  from  the  sideboard  and  poured  a 
round  of  wine  from  the  bottle  on  the  table.  "Jerez,  from  the  dusty  vine- 
yards of  Cadiz."  He  held  his  glass  to  the  candlelight.  "Judas,  see  how 
clear!  If  Oporto  is  the  blood  o'  Jesus,  then  here's  the  very  ichor  of  the  Spiritu 
sancti.  To  your  health,  sirs." 

When  the  toast  was  drunk,  Burlingame  said,  "And  now,  Father,  if  thou'rt 
quite  persuaded  of  our  loyalty " 

"Yes,  yes  indeed,"  the  priest  said,  but  poured  another  round  and  made 
no  move  to  get  any  hidden  documents.  Instead  he  shuffled  through  his 
papers  again,  as  though  preoccupied  with  them,  and  said,  "The  fact  of  the 
matter  is,  the  first  martyr  in  America  was  a  Jesuit  priest,  Father  Joseph 
FitzMaurice— 'tis  his  unknown  history  I've  pieced  together  here." 

Ebenezer  pretended  to  be  much  impressed,  and  said  by  way  of  further 
pleasing  their  host,  "You'd  think  the  Society  of  Jesus  would  lead  the  field 
in  saints  and  martyrs,  would  you  not?  The  saint  and  the  citizen  may  share 
the  selfsame  moral  principles,  but  your  ordinary  man  will  compromise  and 
contradict  'em  at  every  turn,  while  your  saint  will  follow  them  through 


[  370  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

the  very  door  of  death.  What  I  mean,  the  normal  state  of  man  is  irrational, 
and  by  how  much  the  Jesuits  are  known  for  great  logicians,  by  so  much 
do  they  approach  the  condition  of  saintliness." 

"Would  Heav'n  that  argument  were  sound!"  The  priest  smiled  ruefully, 
"But  any  proper  Jesuit  can  show  you  'tis  equivocal.  You  confuse  rational 
with  reasonable,  for  one  thing,  and  the  preachment  with  the  practice  foi 
another.  The  sad  fact  is,  we  are  the  most  reasonable  of  orders-— which  is 
to  say,  we  oft  will  compromise  our  principles  to  reach  our  goal,  and  justify 
means  by  end,  as  no  saint  or  martyr  would.  This  holy  man  FitzMaurice, 

for  example " 

"He  is  with  the  blessed,  I'm  sure,"  Burlingame  broke  in,  "but  ere  we 

hear  his  story,  could  we  not  just  have  a  look  at " 

"Nay,  nay,  there's  no  great  rush,"  Ebenezer  protested,  interrupting  in 
turn.  "We  have  all  night  to  fetch  the  Journal,  now  we're  here,  and  I  for 
one  would  greatly  like  to  hear  the  tale.  Haply  'twill  be  worth  mention  in 
my  Marylandiad"  He  ignored  the  disgusted  look  of  his  friend,  whose  eager- 
ness he  thought  was  antagonizing  their  host.  "What  was  the  manner  of 
the  fellow's  death?" 

The  priest  regarded  them  both  with  a  thoughtful  smile.  "The  truth  is, 
Father  FitzMaurice  was  burnt  as  a  heretic  in  a  proper  auto-da-f  6." 
"You  don't  tell  me!" 

Father  Smith  nodded.  "I  learned  his  story  in  part  from  the  mission 
records  at  the  Vatican  and  in  part  from  enquiries  made  among  the  Indians 
hereabouts;  the  rest  I  can  supply  from  rumor  and  conjecture.  'Tis  a  touch- 
ing tale,  methinks,  and  shows  both  the  strengths  and  weaknesses  of  saint- 
hood, whereof  Mr.  Mitchell  hath  made  mention." 

"A  Jesuit  inquisitioned  and  burnt!  Out  on't,  Father,  I  must  hear  it 
from  first  to  last." 

It  was  quite  late  in  the  evening  by  now,  and  the  wind  still  whistled 
around  the  eaves  of  the  cabin.  Ebenezer  'accepted  a  pipe  of  tobacco  from 
his  host,  lit  it  from  the  candle  flame,  and  settled  back  with  a  great  show  of 
comfort;  but  the  effect  of  his  diplomacy  was  doubtless  nullified  by  Burlin- 
game, who  drank  off  his  wine  and  poured  another  glassful  without  waiting 
to  be  invited,  and  who  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  his  disapproval  of  the 
progress  of  events. 

Father  Smith  lit  a  pipe  himself  and  ignored  his  guest's  unseemly  con- 
duct. "In  the  records  of  the  Society  of  Jesus  in  Rome,"  he  began,  "one 
can  find  all  the  annual  letters  of  the  mission  in  Maryland.  Two  priests 
and  a  coadjutor  came  hither  in  the  Ark  and  the  Dove  with  the  first  colonists, 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  371  ] 

and  another  priest  and  coadjutor  followed  ere  the  year  was  done.  In  the 

very  first  annual  letter  to  Rome "  He  fished  through  the  stack  of  papers 

before  him.  "Aye,  here's  my  copy.  We  read:  Two  priests  of  Ours  were 
assigned  this  year  as  companions  to  a  certain  gentleman  -who  went  to 
explore  unknown  lands.  They  with  great  courage  performed  an  uncomfort- 
able voyage  of  about  eight  months,  both  much  shaken  in  health,  with  spells 
of  illness,  and  gave  us  no  slight  hope  of  reaping  ultimately  an  abundant 
harvest,  in  ample  and  excellent  regions!' 

"Is't  Maryland  they  speak  of?"  Ebenezer  asked.  "Why  don't  they  use 
their  patron's  name?  'Twas  a  bit  ungrateful,  don't  you  think?"  He  remem- 
bered hearing  Charles  Calvert— or,  rather,  Burlingame  in  disguise— describe 
the  difficulties  Governor  Leonard  Calvert  had  had  with  these  same  early 
Jesuits. 

"Not  at  all,"  the  priest  assured  him.  "They  knew  well  old  Cecil  Calvert 
was  a  proper  Catholic  at  heart,  if  something  too  liberal-minded,  but  'twas 
necessary  to  use  great  caution  in  all  things,  inasmuch  as  the  forces  of  anti- 
christ were  e'en  more  in  ascendancy  then  than  now,  and  the  Jesuits  lived 
in  constant  peril.  It  was  their  wont  to  travel  incognito,  or  with  an  alias, 
and  refer  to  their  benefactors  with  coded  epithets  such  as  a  certain  gentle- 
man, 01  a  certain  Catholic  baron.  The  certain  gentleman  here  was  George 
Calvert— not  the  first  Lord  Baltimore,  but  the  brother  of  Cecilius  and 
Leonard.  In  the  same  way,  Baltimore  himself  gave  out  that  Maryland  was 
called  after  Queen  Henrietta  Maria,  albeit  'tis  named  in  fact  for  the  Queen 
of  Heaven,  as  surely  as  is  St.  Mary's  City." 

"Nay,  can  that  be?"  Ebenezer  was  not  a  little  troubled  by  all  this  asso- 
ciation of  the  Baltimores  with  the  Jesuits,  which  brought  to  his  mind  the 
dark  plots  Bertrand  had  believed  in.  "I  understood  'twas  King  Charles 

called  it  Maryland,  after  Baltimore  had  proposed  the  name "  He 

turned  to  Burlingame,  who  was  staring  thoughtfully  into  the  fireplace. 
"What  was  the  name,  Henry?  It  slips  my  mind." 

"Crescentia"  Burlingame  replied,  and  added:  "Whether  'twas  meant  to 
signify  the  holy  lunar  crescent  of  Mohammed  or  the  carnal  crescent  sacred 
to  Priapus  is  a  matter  still  much  argued  by  the  scholars." 

"Ah,  Henry!"  Ebenezer  blushed  for  his  friend's  rudeness.  "I  remember 
now,"  he  said  to  Father  Smith,  "  'twas  called  for  some  Roman  slave  or 
other." 

"No  matter,"  the  priest  said  indulgently.  "In  any  case  'twas  but  a  piece 
of  courtliness  on  Calvert's  part  to  give  out  that  he  had  chosen  the  King's 
suggestion  o'er  his  own." 


[  £72  ]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Then  pray  let's  go  on  with  the  tale,  sir,  and  I'll  not  interrupt  you 
farther." 

Father  Smith  replaced  the  letter  on  the  pile.  "The  two  priests  that  made 
the  first  voyage  were  called  Father  John  Gravener  and  Father  Andrew 
White/7  he  said.  "Father  White's  name  is  genuine— he  wrote  this  fine 
account  here,  called  A  Briefe  Relation  of  the  Voyage  Unto  Mary-land. 
The  other  name  is  an  alias  of  Father  John  Altham.  One  of  these  two  went 
with  George  Calvert  on  the  journey  that  you  just  heard  spoken  of  in  the 
letter,  which  purported  to  be  an  expedition  into  Virginia.  Methinks  'twas 
Father  White,  for  he  was  as  mettlesome  a  fellow  as  ever  cassock  graced. 
But  the  other  wight,  whose  name  is  absent  from  the  letters,  was  in  fact 
the  saint  I  spoke  of:  (me  Father  Joseph  FitzMaurice,  that  also  called  him- 
self Charles  Fitzjames  and  Thomas  FitzSimmons.  The  truth  oft  is,  he 
ne'er  returned  from  the  journey." 

"But  the  letter  you  read  declared " 

"I  know— to  the  author's  shame.  'Twas  doubtless  meant  to  impress  his 
superiors  in  Rome  with  the  mission's  success.  Father  FitzMaurice  was  the 
last  of  the  three  priests  to  come  hither  in  1634.  ^is  was  a  soul  too  zealous 
for  God's  work  in  London  in  those  troubled  times,  which  was  best  done 
unobtrusively,  ^nd  'twas  at  his  superiors'  behest  he  shipped  for  Maryland, 
where  his  missionary  zeal  would  redound  to  the  glory  of  the  Society  and 
not  its  jeopardy. 

"But  alas,  on  his  arrival  in  St.  Mary's,  Father  FitzMaurice  found  his 
brothers'  work  aimed  almost  wholly  at  the  planters  themselves,  that  were 
slipping  daily  nigh  to  apostasy.  He  was  farther  disillusioned  by  the  Pis- 
cataways  of  the  place,  that  so  far  from  being  heathen,  far  outshone  their 
English  brethren  in  devotion  to  the  One  True  Faith.  Father  White  had 
made  an  early  convert  of  their  Tayac,  as  is  our  policy,  and  anon  the 
entire  town  of  salvages  had  set  to  making  rosaries  of  their  roanoke.  Tis 
little  wonder  that  when  George  Calvert  proposed  his  journey  of  exploration, 
Father  FitzMaurice  straightway  offered  to  accompany  him.  'Twas  Calvert's 
declared  intent  to  learn  the  western  boundaries  of  his  brother's  county 
palatine,  but  his  real  design  was  to  dicker  privily  with  Captain  William 
Claiborne  about  the  Kent  Island  question." 

"I  recall  that  name,"  Ebenezer  said.  "He  was  the  spiritual  father  of  John 
Coode!" 

"As  sure  as  Satan  was  of  Martin  Luther,"  agreed  the  priest.  "Father 
FitzMaurice  saw  how  scanty  were  George  Calvert's  provisions,  and  so  put 
by  a  large  stock  for  himself;  regardless  of  the  length  of  the  expedition, 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  373  ] 

he  planned  to  live  some  months  among  the  wildest  heathen  he  could 
find,  and  bring  new  souls  to  the  Supremest  Lord  Proprietary  of  AIL" 

"That  is  good,"  Ebenezer  said  appreciatively.  "That  is  well  said." 

The  priest  smiled  acknowledgment.  "He  packed  one  sea-chest  full  of 
bread,  cheese,  dried  unripe  corn,  beans,  and  flour;  in  a  second  he  packed 
three  bottles  of  communion  wine  and  fifteen  of  holy  water  for  baptisms; 
a  third  carried  the  sacred  vessels  and  a  marble  slab  to  serve  for  an  altar; 
and  a  fourth  was  fitted  with  rosaries,  crucifixes,  medallions,  and  sundry 
gewgaws  and  brummagem  oddments  for  appeasement  and  persuasion  of 
the  heathen.  The  whole  was  loaded  in  the  pinnace  Dove,  and  on  the  fourth 
of  September  they  set  sail  to  southwards,  Howbeit,  ere  the  afternoon  was 
done  the  pinnace  came  about  and  headed  up  the  Chesapeake  instead.  When 
Father  FitzMaurice  inquired  the  reason  for't,  he  was  told  they  were  simply 
tacking  to  windward,  and  inasmuch  as  he  knew  naught  of  the  ways  of 
ships,,  he  had  perforce  to  say  no  more. 

"At  sunset  they  made  anchorage  in  the  lee  of  a  large  island,  which  the 
Piscataway  guide  called  Monoponson,  but  George  Calvert  called  Kent 
Island.  Father  FitzMaurice  went  ashore  in  the  first  boat  and  was  chagrined 
once  more,  for  'twas  settled  and  planted  from  shore  to  shore  and  abounded 
with  white  men, ,  who  were  heretic  and  inhospitable  enough,  but  in  no 
wise  heathens.  Then  fancy  his  disgust  when  Calvert  gave  out  to  the  com- 
pany that  this  was  in  fact  their  destination,  and  that  his  real  mission  was  to 
negotiate  Lord  Baltimore's  disputes  with  Captain  Claiborne! 

"Yet  when  he  voiced  his  pique  to  Father  White,  that  good  man  recom- 
mended acquiescence.  'We  must  make  a  virtue  of  necessity/  is  what  he 
counseled.  'If  Claiborne  trades  with  salvages,  'tis  logically  antecedent  there 
are  Indians  on  this  island.  Who  then  can  say  but  what  our  paths  were 
guided  hither  for  the  improvement  of  these  same  salvages,  and  the  further- 
ance of  the  One  True  Faith?  Were't  not  in  fact  impiety,  a  denial  of  God's 
direction,  not  to  remain  here  and  reap  our  bounty  among  the  heathen?' " 

"There  is  a  pretty  piece  of  casuistry,"  Burlingame  remarked. 

"'Twas  reasoned  closely  enough,"  the  priest  agreed,  "but  Father  Fitz- 
Maurice would  have  none  oft,  nor  would  he  rest  content  ere  he  found 
himself  amid  truly  salvage  Indians.  Such  heathen  as  remained  upon 
the  island,  said  he,  were  already  half  converted  by  the  Virginians,  though 
like  as  not  to  some  rank  heresy  or  other;  the  true  worth  of  the  missionary 
could  be  assayed  only  among  the  pure  and  untouched  heathen  that  had 
ne'er  set  eyes  on  white  men. 

"Father  White  spoke  farther,  but  to  no  avail,  so  incensed  was  Father 


[  374  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

FitzMaurice;  they  retired  at  length  with  some  of  the  ship's  company,  the 
rest  being  engaged  in  carousal  ashore.  Next  day  no  trace  of  Father  Fitz- 
Maurice was  to  be  found,  nor  of  his  four  small  chests,  nor  of  the  small 
boat  that  had  been  tethered  beside  the  Dove.  One  message  alone  he  left, 
by  Father  White's  breviary:  Si  pereo,  pereo  A.M.D.G.  He  ne'er  was  seen 
again,  and  in  time  the  Society  gave  him  up  for  dead  and  struck  his  name 
from  the  records.  No  wight  e'er  learned  whither  he  rowed,  or  what  his  fate 
was,  until  I  commenced  my  researches  some  fifteen  years  ago:  'twas  my 
good  fortune  then  to  converse  with  one  Tacomon,  an  ancient  salvage  that 
once  was  king  of  a  town  at  Castlehaven  Point,  just  o'er  the  Choptank 
from  here,  and  from  him  I  heard  a  tale  whose  hero  could  be  none  but 
Father  FitzMaurice.  .  .  . 

"As  best  I  understand  it,  Father  FitzMaurice  rowed  from  Kent  past 
Tilghman's  Island  and  eastward  into  the  mouth  of  the  Choptank,  whether 
by  accident  or  design,  and  headed  shorewards  •  when  he  saw  the  salvage 
town.  Inasmuch  as  he  faced  his  vessel's  stern  while  rowing,  the  Indians 
had  long  since  descried  him  and  knew  him  for  a  white  man,  and  King 
Tacomon  with  sundry  of  his  Wisoes  went  down  to  greet  him  on  the  beach. 

"When  the  stranger  stepped  ashore,  they  observed  that  he  wore  a  strange 
black  gown,  and  that  the  image  of  a  bird  was  painted  on  his  boat.  Tis 
these  two  details  I  pounced  on  when  I  heard  them,  for  the  Dove's  boat 
carried  such  an  emblem  on  its  stern,  and  Father  FitzMaurice  ne'er  removed 
his  cassock  save  to  sleep.  Moreover,  he  had  four  wooden  chests  aboard  the 
boat,  and  when  he  came  ashore  he  fell  to  his  knees  in  prayer— no  doubt 
to  Maria  Stella  Maris,  to  thank  her  for  his  safe  deliverance.  The  salvages 
showed  great  interest  in  all  this,  and  greater  still  when  Father  FitzMaurice 
gave  them  baubles  from  his  chest.  Tacomon  sent  a  man  straightway  into 
the  town,  who  soon  fetched  down  a  goodly  load  of  furs  and  all  the  other 
salvage  folk  as  well. 

"Father  FitzMaurice  was  delighted,  I  feel  certain,  at  the  numbers  of 
the  heathen  that  he  would  quite  reasonably  assume  had  ne'er  seen  a 
Christian  man  before.  Picture  him  handing  'round  trinkets  with  his  left 
hand  and  blessing  their  recipients  with  his  right,  and  all  the  while, 
so  Tacomon  remembered,  babbling  in  a  tongue  no  man  among  them 
kenned.  They  loaded  furs  into  his  boat  until  at  length  he  saw  they  took 
him  for  a  trader,  whereupon  he  gave  each  one  a  crucifix  and  doubtless 
tried  to  explain,  by  signs,  the  Passion  of  Our  Savior. 

"Anon  this  Tacomon,  when  he  had  scrutinized  the  crucifix,  gave  com- 
mands to  one  of  his  Wisoes,  at  the  same  time  pointing  to  the  cross.  The 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  375  ] 

man  ran  once  more  to  the  town  and  came  back  with  a  small  wooden  box, 
at  sight  of  which  all  the  salvages  fell  prostrate  on  the  beach.  Would  not 
Father  FitzMaurice  guess  the  box  contained  some  pagan  relic  sacred  to 
the  tribe?  I  see  him  rehearsing  in  his  mind  the  pretty  ceremony  of  casting 
their  idol  to  the  ground,  as  did  Moses  on  descending  from  Mount  Sinai, 
and  wondering  how  much  holy  water  'twould  want  to  baptize  the  lot. 

"But  alas  for  him,  his  trials  were  not  yet  done;  the  fact  of  the  matter 
was,  his  virgin  town  had  been  deflowered  years  before  by  some  trader  pass- 
ing through— and  what  was  worse,  by  an  arrant  heretic  Virginian!  Tacomon 
fetched  no  Golden  Calf  from  the  box,  but  a  leathern  Bible,  which  was 
fronted  with  a  woodcut  of  the  Crucifixion.  Just  opposite  (for  I  saw  the 
book  myself)  the  dedication  ran:  To  the  Most  High  and  Mighty  Prince 
James .  .  .  that  the  Church  of  England  shall  reap  good  fruit  thereby  .  .  .  ! 
The  King  held  the  book  aloft  for  all  to  see,  whereon  with  one  accord  the 
assembled  Indians  sang  by  rote  the  Anglican  Te  Deum: 

We  praise  thee,  O  God,  we  knowledge 

thee  to  be  Lord. 
All  the  earth  doth  worship  thee, 

the  father  everlasting  .  .  . 

The  poor  father  must  have  come  near  swooning;  in  any  case  he  snatched 
two  or  three  cracifixes  from  Tacomon  and  his  cawcawaassoughs,  leaped 
into  his  boat,  and  did  not  pause  to  cross  himself  till  he  was  out  of  arrowshot 
As  for  the  Indians,  when  they  saw  him  shake  his  fist  at  them  they  took  it 
for  a  fare-thee-well,  which  they  returned  with  a  reprise  of  their  hymn," 

"Luckless  wretch!"  laughed  Ebenezer,  and  even  Burlingame,  though 
still  by  no  means  playing  the  model  guest,  could  not  but  smile  and  remark 
that  the  way  of  the  saint  is  hard. 

"But  pray,"  the  poet  asked,  "what  was  the  poor  man's  fortune  after,  or 
is't  a  mystery?" 

"When  I  had  learnt  this  much  of  his  misfortunes,"  said  the  priest,  "I 
could  not  rest  till  I  discovered  his  end.  I  made  enquiries  up  and  down 
the  Province,  but  especially  in  lower  Dorchester  County,  for  I  guessed 
that  when  his  first  try  failed  he  would  row  farther  south  in  search  of 
heathen.  For  a  long  time  my  efforts  bore  no  fruit.  Then  not  many  years 
past  an  Indian  was  brought  to  trial  in  Cambridge  court  on  charges  of  kill- 
ing an  entire  family  of  white  folk,  and,  happening  to  have  some  business 
in  the  area,  I  took  it  upon  myself  to  shrive  the  poor  man  of  his  sins.  He 
would  none  of  my  services  and  was  hanged  anon,  but  in  our  bootless  col- 
loquy I  learned^  as't  were  by  accident,  the  fate  of  Father  FitzMaurice. 


[  376  ]  THE   SOT-WEED   FACTOR 

"The  name  of  the  salvage  was  Charley  Mattassin.  He  was  not  of  any 
Choptank  town,  but  from  a  warlike  band  of  Nanticokes  that  in  time  long 
past  had  crossed  into  the  marshes  of  Dorchester  and  are  said  to  live  there 
yet  in  fierce  seclusion.  This  Charley  was  in  fact  the  Tayac's  son,  and  for 
all  he  had  run  off  with  an  English  whore,  that  later  was  among  the  souls 
he  murthered,  he  bore  surpassing  hatred  for  the  English,  which  sentiment 
he  owned  was  learnt  from  his  father  the  Tayac.  He  contemned  me  in 
especial,  when  I  went  to  him  with  holy  water  and  crucifix  to  baptize  and 
shrive  him:  he  spat  upon  my  cassock  and  declared  his  people  had  once 
burned  a  man  like  me  upon  a  cross!  I  then  enquired,  Did  he  mean  an 
Englishman?  For  I  had  heard  of  no  such  deed.  And  he  replied,  in  essence, 
'twas  not  merely  an  Englishman  but  a  black-robed  priest  with  crucifix  and 
breviary,  such  as  I,  who  with  all  his  magical  water  could  not  cool  the  fire 
that  burnt  him.  And  what  was  yet  more  curious,  this  priest  was  Charley's 
own  grandfather,  so  he  declared,  and  was  burnt  by  Charley's  father." 

"Out  on't,  this  is  incredible!"  Ebenezer  cried. 

The  priest  agreed.  "When  I  had  heard  it  I  put  by  my  holy  errand  and 
implored  him  to  tell  me  more—not  alone  because  the  tale  seemed  so  pi- 
quant, but  also  in  hopes  'twould  shed  some  light,  howsoever  grisly,  on  my 
history  of  the  Jesuit  mission.  I  shall  answer  for  the  Indian's  soul  to  God, 
but  i'faith,,  a  good  tale's  worth  a  guilty  conscience,  is't  not?  Moreover,  I  can 
but  think  God  sent  me  thither  to  hear't,  for  when  'twas  done  I  knew  the 
full  and  tragic  tale  of  Father  FitzMaurice.  .  .  . 

"When  that  sainted  wight  left  Castlehaven,  who  knows  how  long  he 
drifted  south,  or  how  many  were  his  vain  sallies  ashore?  What  force  save 
miracle  could  keep  his  craft  afloat  for  hours  and  days  in  the  lusty  Chesa- 
peake, and  wash  him  at  last  to  the  wild  rogue  Nanticokes  I  spoke  of?  As 
Charley  told  me,  that  had  the  tale  by  rote  from  the  Tayac  his  father,  some 
threescore  autumns  past  a  fearsome  hurricane  swept  the  marsh  and  washed 
a  strange  boat  into  the  Indian  town.  In  the  boat,  swooned  dead  away,  was 
a  black-frocked  Englishman,  haply  the  first  they  had  laid  eyes  upon,  and 
sundry  brass-bound  chests." 

"Then  in  sooth  'twas  no  man  else  than  Father  FitzMaurice!" 

"So  said  my  heart  on  hearing  it,"  replied  the  priest,  "yet  'twas  so  won- 
drous a  coincidence  I  scarce  durst  believe  it.  Howbeit,  my  informant's  next 
words  cleared  all  doubt:  there  was  an  old  Belief  among  his  tribe,  he  said, 
that  white-skinned  men  are  treacherous  as  water-vipers,  and  should  be  mas- 
sacred on  sight.  Yet  so  unusual  was  the  aspect  of  this  visitor,  and  so  strangely 
was  he  brought  into  their  midst,  some  feared  he  was  an  evil  spirit  bent 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  377  ] 

on  working  mischief  among  them;  and  they  feared  this  the  more  strongly 
inasmuch  as  his  cassock  looked  like  the  black  storm  cloud,  and  on  the  tran- 
som of  his  boat  was  drawn  the  image  of  a  bird!  I  have  no  doubts  it  was 
the  Dove,  but  the  salvages  took  it  for  a  tern  and  were  the  more  alarmed, 
for  that  the  tern  is  rarely  seen  so  far  from  open  water  save  when  some 
great  storm  blows  him  inland. 

"Anon  they  overcame  their  fear,  inasmuch  as  the  man  seemed  helpless, 
and  whilst  he  lay  still  a-swoon  they  fetched  him  to  a  lodge  and  tethered 
his  ankles  with  rawhide  thongs.  Then  they  broke  open  his  chests  and  decked 
themselves  with  beads  and  crucifixes.  When  the  prisoner  awoke  he  knelt 
for  a  while  with  lowered  head  and  then  addressed  them  in  a  tongue  they 
knew  naught  of.  While  the  elders  of  the  town  held  council  on  what  to 
do  with  him,  the  younger  men  gave  him  food  and  stood  about  to  watch 
his  antics,  which  they  thought  supremely  funny.  He  caught  sight  of  the 
crucifixes  from  his  chest  and  for  some  hours  repeated  a  ritual  of  gesticula- 
tion, which  though  not  a  single  salvage  understood,  it  so  pleased  'em  that 
they  practiced  the  gestures  in  turn,  and  passed  them  on  to  succeeding  gen- 
erations. E'en  Charley  Mattassin  could  recall  them,,  that  had  learnt  them 
from  his  father,  and  for  aught  I  know  his  tribe  performs  'em  yet  down  in 
the  Dorset  marshes.  Here  was  the  first,,  as  'twas  shown  to  me— see  what 
you  make  oft." 

Moving  out  from  the  table,  Father  Smith  pointed  to  himself  and  then 
in  quick  succession  plucked  at  his  cassock,  held  up  his  crucifix,  crossed  him- 
self, dropped  to  his  knees  in  simulated  prayer,  jumped  up,  and  stretched 
out  his  arms  and  raised  his  eyes  in  imitation  of  Christ  on  the  cross. 

"Methinks  he  meant  to  show  he  was  a  priest,"  said  Burlingame. 

"Aye!"  the  Laureate  agreed  excitedly.  "  'Sheart,  'tis  like  a  voice  from 
the  gravel" 

"Yet  not  by  half  so  clever  as  this  next,"  the  priest  said. 

"How's  that?  The  salvages  recalled  e'en  more?" 

Father  Smith  nodded  proudly.  "That  first  was  mere  identification,  but 

this:  'tis  no  less  than  Christian  doctrine,  done  in  signs!  First  came  this " 

He  held  up  three  fingers,,  which  Ebenezer  correctly  interpreted  as  symboliz- 
ing the  Holy  Trinity. 

"Then  this "  After  indicating  the  first  of  the  three,  the  priest  stood 

on  tiptote  and  pointed  skywards  with  his  right  hand,  grasping  with  his  left 
the  area  of  his  genitalia. 

"Dear  me!"  laughed  Burlingame.  "I  fear  'tis  the  Father  in  Heav'nl", 

"No  less,"  beamed  the  priest.  He  then  raised  his  index  finger  beside 


[  378  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

the  forefinger  and,  in  succession,  rocked  an  invisible  child  in  his  arms  and 
displayed  the  crucifix,  unequivocally  representing  the  Son.  Raising  next  his 
ring  finger  beside  the  other  two,  he  lay  for  a  moment  prostrate  on  the 
ground  with  closed  eyes  and  then,  fixing  his  gaze  on  the  ceiling,  rose 
slowly  to  his  feet,  meanwhile  flapping  his  arms  like  wings  to  suggest  the 
Ascension  and  thus  the  Holy  Ghost. 
"Marvelous!"  the  poet  applauded. 

"Was't  past  his  powers  to  do  the  Virgin  Birth?"  Burlingame  inquired. 
Father  Smith  was  not  at  all  ruffled.  "Faith  moveth  mountains,"  he  de- 
clared. "How  can  we  doubt  his  prowess  in  any  article  of  doctrine,  when 
such  a  subtle  mystery  as  the  Unity  of  the  Trinity  he  dispenses  with  so  lu- 
cidly as  this?"  Holding  forth  the  same  three  fingetS  as  before,  he  alternately 
spread  and  closed  them. 
"Braver 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "  'twas  an  entire  waste  of  wit,  for  not  a  heathen 
in  the  house  knew  what  he  meant.  Methinks  they  must  have  rolled  about 
in  mirth,  and  when  the  poor  priest  wearied  they  would  prod  him  with  a 
stick  to  set  him  pantomiming  farther." 

"Surely  your  informant  could  not  tell  you  such  details,"  Burlingame 
said  skeptically.  "All  these  things  took  place  before  his  birth." 

"He  could  not,  nor  did  he  need  to,"  Smith  replied.  "All  salvages  are 
much  alike,  be  they  Indian,  Turk,  or  unredeemed  English,  and  I  know 
the  ways  of  salvages.  For  this  reason  I  shall  speak  henceforth  from  the 
martyr's  point  of  view,  as't  were,  adding  what  I  can  surmise  to  the  things 
Charley  Mattassin  told  me.  Twill  make'  a  better  tale  than  otherwise,  and 
do  no  violence  to  what  scanty  facts  we  have." 
He  returned  to  the  table  and  poured  a  fourth  round  of  Jerez. 
"Let  us  say  the  young  men  mock  him  for  some  hours,  aping  his  gestures 
and  tormenting  him  with  sticks.  They  become  quite  curious  about  the  color 
of  his  skin:  one  grasps  the  priest's  hand  in  his  own,  chattering  to  his 
companions  as  he  compares  the  hue;  another  slaps  the  flesh  of  his  stomach 
and  points  to  Father  FitzMaurice's  cassock,  wondering  whether  the  stranger 
hath  the  same  outlandish  color  from  head  to  foot.  The  rest  deride  this 
notion,  to  the  great  indignation  of  the  curious  one;  he  lifts  up  his  muskrat 
loincloth  and  voices  a  second  conjecture,  so  fantastical  to  Ijis  brothers  that 
their  eyes  brim  o'er  with  glee.  They  fall  to  wagering— four,  five  strings  of 
wompompeag—and  at  length  deprive  Father  FitzMaurice  of  his  weathered 
clothes,  for  proof.  Ecce  homo!  There  he  stands,  all  miserable  and  a-shiver; 
his  belly  is  as  white  as  the  belly  of  a  rockfish,  and  though  his  parts  have 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  379  ] 

lain  as  idle  as  a  Book  of  Common  Prayer  in  the  Vatican,  he  boasts  in 
sooth  a  full  set  nonetheless.  The  challenger  stalks  off  with  his  winnings, 
and  the  young  Tayac,  who  is  not  above  thirty  years  of  age,  gives  commands 
to  end  the  sport." 

"Ah,  now,  prithee,  wait  a  momentl"  Burlingame  protested.  'This  is  made 
up  from  the  whole  cloth!" 

"Say,  from  the  Holy  Cloth,"  rejoined  the  imperturbable  Smith,  widen- 
ing his  blue  eyes  at  the  jest. 

"I  for  one  prefer't  thus,"  Ebenezer  declared  impatiently  to  his  friend. 
"Let  him  flesh  his  bony  facts  into  a  tale." 

Burlingame  shrugged  and  turned  back  to  the  fire. 

"The  women  then  bring  forth  the  evening  meal,"  the  priest  went  on. 
"To  Father  FitzMaurice,  cowering  naked  on  his  grass  mat  in  the  corner, 
it  seems  interminable,  but  anon  'tis  done;  the  women  remain,  tobacco  is 
passed  round,  and  a  general  carouse  ensues.  The  priest  looks  on,  abashed 
but  curious,  for  albeit  he  is  a  Jesuit,  he  is  a  man  as  well,  and  plans  more- 
over to  write  a  treatise  on  the  practices  of  the  salvage  if  his  life  is  spared. 
His  presence  is  for  the  nonce  ignored,  and  as  they  disport  in  their  error 
he  wrings  his  wits  to  hit  upon  a  means  of  speaking  with  them,  so  to  initiate 
the  business  of  conversion. 

"The  hour  arrives  when  the  young  Tayac  addresses  certain  words  to  all 
the  group,  sundry  of  whom  turn  round  to  regard  the  priest.  Two  hoary, 
painted  elders  leave  the  hut  to  fetch  back  a  carven  pole,  some  ten  feet 
long,  that  bears  a  skunk  pelt  at  the  bottom  and  a  crudely  mounted  muskrat 
on  the  top.  All  present  genuflect  before  it,  and  its  bearers  hold  it  forth 
toward  Father  FitzMaurice.  The  Tayac  points  his  finger  at  the  muskrat 
and  speaks  certain  gibberish,  whose  imperious  tone  hath  need  of  no  trans- 
lation: 'tis  a  call  for  similar  obsequies  from  the  priest 

"Father  FitzMaurice  deems  the  moment  opportune.  His  nakedness  for- 
got, he  springs  to  his  feet  and  shakes  his  head  to  signify  refusal.  Then  he 
once  more  holds  aloft  his  crucifix,  nods  his  head  in  vigorous  affirmation, 
and  makes  a  motion  as  though  to  fling  the  idol  down.  The  Tayac  now 
grows  wroth;  he  repeats  the  same  command  in  louder  tones,  and  the  other 
folk  are  still.  But  Father  FitzMaurice  stands  firm:  he  raises  a  finger  to  in- 
dicate that  the  figure  on  the  crucifix  is  the  true  and  only  God,  and  goes 
so  far  as  to  spit  upon  the  sacred  staff.  At  once  the  Tayac  strikes  him  down; 
the  idol-bearers  place  the  butt  of  their  pole  upon  the  back  of  his  neck  to 
pin  him  fast  to  the  dirt,  and  the  Tayac  pronounces  a  solemn  incantation, 
whereto  the  others  shout  assent." 


[  580  ]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Unhappy  wretch!"  sighed  Ebenezer.  "I  fear  his  martyrdom  is  at  hand/' 

"Not  yet/'  the  priest  declared.  "Now  the  hut  is  cleared  at  once,  and 
Father  FitzMaurice  is  left  trembling  in  the  dirt.  Anon  a  dozen  salvage 
maidens  enter,  all  bedaubed  with  puccoon  paint;  they  spread  their  mats 
about  the  floor  and  to  all  appearances  make  ready  for  the  night  .  .  ." 

"  Tis  no  mysteiy  what  will  ensue,"  Burlingame  remarked,  "if  these  Nan- 
ticokes  are  like  some  other  Indians." 

But  Ebenezer,  who  knew  nothing  of  such  matters,  implored  Father 
Smith  to  go  on  with  the  tale. 

"Father  FitzMaurice  is  abashed  tenfold  at  the  presence  of  the  maidens/' 
said  the  priest,  "more  especially  as  he  seems  the  subject  of  a  colloquy  among 
them,  carried  on  in  mirthful  whispers.  He  makes  a  mental  note,  for  his 
treatise,  that  salvage  maids  all  share  a  common  chamber,  and  rejoices  when 
at  last  the  fire  burns  out  and  he  can  clothe  his  shame  with  darkness. 

"But  his  solitude  doth  not  live  long:  he  hath  told  not  more  than  three 
Ave  Marias  ere  an  Indian  wench,  perfumed  with  grease  of  bear  and  covered 
no  more  than  an  Adamite,  flings  herself  upon  him  and  bites  him  in  the 
neck!" 

"I'God!"  cried  Ebenezer. 

"The  good  man  struggles,  but  the  maid  hath  strength,  and  besides,  his 
foot  is  tethered.  She  lays  hands  upon  the  candle  of  the  Carnal  Mass,  and 
mirabile,  the  more  she  trims  it,  the  greater  doth  it  wax!  Father  FitzMaurice 
scarce  can  conjure  up  his  Latin,  yet  so  bent  is  he  on  making  at  least  one 
convert  ere  he  dies,  he  stammers  out  a  blessing.  For  reply  the  heathen 
licks  his  ear,  whereupon  Father  FitzMaurice  sets  to  saying  Paternosters 
with  all  haste,  more  concerned  now  with  the  preservation  of  his  own  grace 
than  the  institution  of  his  ward's.  But  no  sooner  is  he  thus  engaged  than 
zut!  she  caps  his  candle  with  the  snuffer  priests  must  shun,  that  so  far 
from  putting  out  the  fire,  only  fuels  it  to  a  greater  heat  and  brilliance. 
In  sum,  where  he  hath  hoped  to  win  a  convert,  'tis  Father  FitzMaurice 
finds  himself  converted,  in  less  time  than  it  wants  to  write  a  syllogism— 
and  baptized,  catechized,  received,  and  given  orders  into  the  bargain!" 

Burlingame  smiled  at  the  Laureate's  absorption  in  the  tale.  "Doth  that 
strike  you  closely,  Eben?" 

"Barbarous!"  the  poet  said  with  feeling.  "To  fall  so  from  his  vows  by 
no  fault  of- his  own!  What  misery  must  his  noble  soul  have  suffered!" 

"Nay,  sir,"  Father  Smith  declared,  "you  forget  he  is  the  stuff  of  saints, 
and  a  Jesuit  as  well." 

Ebenezer  protested  that  he  did  not  understand. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"He  explores  the  pros  and  contras  of  his  case,"  the  priest  explained,  "and 
adduces  four  good  arguments  to  ease  his  suffering  conscience.  To  begin 
with,  'tis  e'er  the  wont  of  prudent  missionaries  to  wink  their  eyes,  at  the 
outset,  at  any  curious  customs  of  the  folk  they  would  convert.  In  the 
second  place,  he  is  promoting  the  rapport  'twixt  him  and  the  heathen  that 
must  be  established  ere  conversion  can  commence;  'twas  for  no  other  cause 
than  this  he  packed  the  chest  of  baubles,  and  the  present  tactic,  albeit  not 
of  his  own  invention,  is  both  cheaper  and  more  effective.  Third,  'tis  to 
his  ultimate  good  he  sins,  as  is  shown  past  cavil  by  holy  precedent:  had 
not  the  illustrious  St.  Augustine,  for  example,,  essayed  the  manifold  refine- 
ments of  the  flesh,  the  better  to  know  and  appreciate  virtue?  And  finally, 
lest  these  have  an  air  of  casuistry,  he  is  tethered  and  pinioned  from  head 
to  foot  and  hath  therefore  no  choice  or  culpability  in  the  matter.  In  fine, 
so  far  from  wailing  o'er  his  plight,  he  comes  to  see  in  it  the  hand  of  Provi- 
dence and  joins  in  the  labor  with  a  will.  If  his  harvest  be  commensurate 
to  his  tilling  of  the  ground,  so  he  reflects,  he  might  well  be  raised  to 
a  bishopric  by  Rome! 

"When  anon  the  maid  is  ploughed  and  harrowed,  Father  FitzMaurice 
finds  her  place  taken  by  another,  whom  he  loses  no  chance  to  prime  like 
the  first  for  her  conversion.  Ere  dawn,  with  the  help  of  God,  he  hath  per- 
suaded every  woman  in  the  hut  of  the  clear  superiority  of  the  Faith,  and 
inasmuch  as  there  were  in  all  some  half-score  visitants,  when  the  last  is 
catechized  he  falls  exhausted  into  sleep. 

"Not  long  after,  he  awakes  in  high  spirits:  such  strides  hath  he  made 
toward  conversion  of  the  women,  he  feels  sure  of  making  progress  with 
the  men.  Nor  do  his  hopes  seem  groundless,  for  anon  the  Tayac  and  his 
cawcawaassoughs  appear  and  order  the  women  from  the  hut,  after  which 
they  cut  the  tether  from  his  foot.  'Bless  you,  my  friends,'  he  cries.  *You  have 
seen  the  true  and  only  Way!'  And  he  forgives  them  for  his  cruel  use  at  their 
hands.  They  fetch  him  up  and  lead  him  from  the  hut,  and  he  is  over- 
whelmed with  joy  at  what  he  sees:  the  hurricane  is  gone,  and  through  its 
last  dark  clouds  the  sun  falls  on  a  large  wooden  cross,  erected  in  the  court- 
yard of  the  town,  and  on  the  priest's  four  precious  sea-chesty  at  its  foot. 
The  Tayac  points  first  to  Father  FitzMaurice's  crucifix  and  then  to  the 
larger  cross. 

"  This  is  God's  work,'  declares  the  missionary.  'He  hath  shewed  to  thee 
thine  error,  and  in  thy  simple  fashion  thou  dost  Him  homage!'  He  is 
moved  to  kneel  in  grateful  prayer  to  God,  whom  he  thanks  both  for  work- 
ing His  divine  will  on  the  minds  of  the  heathen  men  and  for  vouchsafing 


[  582  ]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

to  His  lowly  priest  the  wherewithal  to  work  His  will  upon  their  unmarried 
women.  Then  alas,  his  prayers  are  cut  short  by  two  strong  men,  who  grasp 
his  arms  and  lead  him  to  the  cross.  Father  FitzMaurice  smiles  indulgently 
on  their  roughness,,  which  he  takes  for  childish  haste  to  commence  the 
ceremony,  but  in  a  trice  they  bind  him  fast  to  the  cross  by  his  ankles, 
arms,  and  neck,  and  then  pile  faggots  on  the  sea-chests  at  his  feet.  All 
in  vain  he  cries  for  mercy  to  the  gathering  crowd.  His  novitiates  of  the 
night  just  past,  when  he  addresses  them,  merely  cluck  their  tongues  and 
watch  the  scene  with  interest:  'tis  the  law  of  their  land  that  when  a  man 
is  doomed  to  die  he  may  enjoy  the  tribe's  unmarried  girls  on  the  eve  of  his 
execution,  and  they  have  discharged  their  obligation! 

"Then  comes  this  great  soul's  noblest  moment.  The  Tayac  confronts 
him  for  the  last  time,  in  one  hand  the  sacred  muskrat,  in  the  other  a  flam- 
ing torch,  and  makes  an  ultimate  demand  for  his  obeisance.  Yet  though 
he  sees  his  case  is  lost,  Father  FitzMaurice  summons  up  his  last  reserves 
of  courage  and  spits  on  the  pagan  idol  once  again." 

"A  very  prince  of  saints!"  said  Ebenezer. 

"  Tis  a  marvel  he  could  summon  any  spit,"  Burlingame  observed. 

"At  once  a  shout  goes  up,  and  the  Tayac  flings  his  torch  upon  the  fag- 
gots! The  salvages  dance  and  shake  their  sacred  pole  at  him— for  in  fact 
'tis  as  a  heretic  they  condemn  him — and  the  flames  leap  up  to  singe  his 
puccoon  paint.  The  good  man  knows  that  our  afflictions  are  God's  blessings 
in  disguise,  and  so  reasons  that  he  was  meant  not  for  a  missionary  after  all, 
but  for  a  martyr.  He  lifts  his  eyes  to  Heaven,  and  with  his  final  tortured 
breath  he  says,  'Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do.  .  .  .' " 

Though  he  was  not  religiously  inclined,  so  impressed  was  Ebenezer  by 
the  tale  that  he  murmured  "Amen." 

"  'Twould  perhaps  have  made  his  death  more  easy,  if  no  less  warm,  had 
Father  FitzMaurice  known  that  even  as  he  roasted  there  were  three  white 
babes  a-building  in  the  wombs  of  his  novitiates.  Of  these,  one  died  a-bearing, 
ancfther  was  exposed  out  in  the  marsh,  and  the  third,  when  she  was  nubile, 
became  the  mother  of  my  informant  by  the  old  Tayac  himself.  As  for  the 
Jesuit  mission,  when  George  Calvert  returned  at  last  to  St.  Mary's  City, 
his  negotiations  with  Claiborne  proving  bootless,  the  remaining  priests 
vowed  not  to  report  their  colleague's  defection  to  Rome  until  they  learned 
more  of  his  whereabouts.  To  this  end  they  reported,  in  the  annual  letter  I 
read  you,  that  both  priests  had  returned  with  the  expedition.  After  that 
time  such  various  rumors  were  heard  of  him,  none  of  them  true,  that  they 
put  off  reporting  his  absence  indefinitely.  New  priests  came  to  the  Province; 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  383  ] 

God's  work  went  on  less  zealously  but  more  steadily,  and  in  time  the  name 
FitzMaurice  was  forgot." 

He  would  have  said  more,  but  Burlingame  interrupted  him  to  ask,  "And 
what  is  your  opinion  of  him,  Father?  Was  the  man  a  fool  or  a  saint?" 

The  priest  turned  his  wide  blue  eyes  upon  his  questioner.  "Those  are  not 
true  alternatives,  Mr.  Mitchell:  he  was  a  fool  of  God,  as  hath  been  many  a 
holy  man  before  him,  and  the  most  that  can  be  said  is  that  his  way  was  not 
the  way  of  the  Society.  A  dead  missionary  makes  no  converts,  nor  doth  a 
live  martyr." 

"It  is  truly  said,"  Ebenezer  declared:  "There  are  more  ways  to  the  woods 
than  one!' 

"Then  permit  me  a  nearer  question,"  Burlingame  insisted.  "Which  way 
is  the  more  congenial  to  your  temper?" 

Father  Smith  appeared  to  consider  this  question  for  some  moments  before 
replying.  He  tapped  out  his  pipe  and  fingered  the  papers  on  the  table. 
"Why  do  you  ask?"  he  inquired  at  last,  though  his  tone  suggested  that  he 
knew  the  reason  already.  "  'Tis  not  likely  one  could  gauge  his  capacity  for 
martyrdom  ere  the  choice  was  thrust  upon  him." 

To  this  Burlingame  only  smiled,  but  his  meaning  was  unmistakable. 
Ebenezer  blushed  with  horror, 

"The  fact  of  the  matter  is,"  the  priest  went  on,  "I  scarcely  dare  deliver 
the  Journal  into  your  hands.  The  ways  of  Coode  are  infinitely  devious,  and 
your  authorization  is  signed  by  Nicholson,  not  Lord  Baltimore." 

"So 'that  is  the  stripe  oft!"  Burlingame  laughed  mirthlessly.  "You  don't 
trust  Nicholson,  that  owes  his  post  to  Baltimore?  He  was  hand-picked  by 
reason  of  his  enmity  toward  Coode!" 

The  priest  shook  his  head.  "Francis  Nicholson  is  no  man's  tool,  my  friend. 
Hath  he  not  struck  out  already  at  Governor  Andros,  that  erst  was  his 
superior?  Doth  he  not  intend  to  move  the  capital  from  St.  Mary's  to  Anne 
Anindel  Town,  for  no  better  reason  than  to  show  his  allegiance  to  the 
Protestant  King?" 

"But  dear  God!"  Burlingame  cried.  "  'Twas  Nicholson  stole  the  Journal 
in  the  first  place,  and  smuggled  it  to  Baltimore!  How  can  you  doubt  his 
loyalty?" 

"  Tis  as  I  $aid  before  of  Mister  Cooke,"  Father  Smith  explained.  "All 
men  are  loyal,  but  their  objects  of  allegiance  are  at  best  approximate.  Thus 
Father  FitzMaurice  showed  a  loyal  zeal  for  service  in  the  Province,  as  did 
Fathers  White  and  Altham,  but  once  here,  that  same  zeal  led  to  his  defec- 
tion; no  man  knew  till  then  'twas  some  other  goal  he  strove  for.  How  shall 


[  384  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

I  say  it?"  He  smiled  nervously,  as  if  aware  that  his  words  were  not  per- 
suading Burlingame. 

"Many  travelers  ride  the  Plymouth  coach  together/7  Burlingame  sug- 
gested, *1)ut  not  all  have  Maryland  for  their  destination/' 

"Our  Laureate  here  could  not  have  put  it  better!  If  I  could  see  an  au- 
thorization in  Lord  Baltimore's  hand,  with  his  signature  affixed,  as  I  was 
•instructed  to  demand,  then  I  should  deliver  up  the  Journal  to  John  Calvin 
himself,  and  there's  an  end  on't." 

Fearing  the  measures  his  friend  might  threaten,  Ebenezer  came  near  to 
imploring  the  priest  to  trust  him  personally,  as  Charles  Calvert's  poet 
laureate,  if  he  could  not  trust  Nicholson  or  Burlingame;  but  he  checked 
himself  upon  remembering  again,  with  no  little  annoyance,  that  his  com- 
mission was  not  authentic,  and  that  even  if  it  were,  he  could  not  produce 
it  for  inspection. 

A  new  expression  came  to  Burlingame's  face:  leaning  over  the  table  to- 
ward their  host  he  drew  from  his  belt  a  leather-handled,  poigTwrdlike  knife, 
and  in  the  candlelight  ran  his  thumb  across  its  edge. 

"I  had  thought  the  Governor's  note  were  sufficient  persuasion,"  he  said, 
"but  here  is  logic  keen  enough  to  sway  the  most  adamant  of  Jesuits!  Produce 
the  Journal,  an  it  please  you!" 

Though  he  had  anticipated  some  sort  of  threat,  Ebenezer  was  so  shaken 
by  this  move  that  he  could  not  even  gasp. 

Father  Smith  stared  round-eyed  at  the  knife  and  licked  his  lips.  "I  .shan't 
be  the  first  to  perish  in  the  service  of  the  Society." 

Even  to  Ebenezer  this  remark  sounded  more  experimental  than  defiant. 
Burlingame  smiled.  "'Twere  a  coward  indeed  that  feared  a  clean  stroke  of 
the  dirk!  E'en  Father  FitzMaurice  had  a  harder  lot,  to  say  naught  of 
Catherine  on  her  wheel  or  Lawrence  on  his  griddle:  what  would  it  avail  me 
to  let  you  join  their  company?  I'd  be  no  nearer  the  Journal  than  I  am." 

'Then  'tis  some  torture  you  have  in  mind?"  Father  Smith  murmured. 
""We  Christians  are  no  strangers  there,  either." 

"Most  especially  the  Holy  Roman  Church,"  Burlingame  said  cynically, 
"that  hath  authored  such  delights  as  never  Saracen  could  devise!"  Not  tak- 
ing his  eyes  from  the  priest,  he  proceeded  to  describe,  perhaps  for  Ebene- 
zer's  benefit,  various  persuasions  resorted  to  by  the  agents  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion: the  strappado,  the  aselli,  the  escdera,  the  potro,  the  tablillas,  the  rack, 
the  Iron  Maiden,  the  hot  brick,  the  Gehenna,  and  others.  The  Laureate 
was  impressed  enough  by  this  recital,  though  it  made  him  feel  no  easier 
about  the  business  at  hand.  Father  Smith  sat  stonily  throughout. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [385] 

"Yet  these  are  all  refinements  for  the  connoisseur/'  Burlingame  declared. 
"Who  inflicts  them  savors  his  victim's  pain  as  an  end,  not  as  a  means,  and 
I've  nor  taste  nor  time  for  such  a  game."  Still  thumbing  the  knife  blade  he 
left  the  table— whereat  the  priest  gave  a  start  despite  himself— and  bolted 
the  cabin  door.  "I  have  observed  among  the  Caribbean  pirates  that  they 
may  make  a  man  eat  his  own  two  ears  for  sport,  or  fornicate  his  daughter 
with  a  short-sword;  but  when  'tis  certain  information  that  they  seek,  they 
have  recourse  to  a  simpler  and  wondrous  quick  expedient."  He  advanced 
toward  the  table,  knife  in  hand.  "Since  thou'rt  a  priest,  the  loss  should  cause 
you  no  regrets;  what  shall  unbind  your  tongue,  sir,  is  the  manner  of  the 
losing.  Tis  a  blow  to  lose  a  treasure  in  one  fell  stroke,  but  how  harder  to  be 
robbed  oft  jewel  by  jewel!  Must  I  say  more?" 

"  'Sblood,,  Henry!"  Ebenezer  cried,  jumping  to  his  feet.  "I  cannot  think 
you  mean  to  do't!" 

"Henry,  is't?"  the  priest  said  thickly.  "Thou'rt  impostors  after  all!" 

Burlingame  frowned  at  Ebenezer.  "I  mean  to  do't,  and  you  shall  aid  me. 
Hold  him  fast  till  I  find  rope  to  bind  him!" 

Although  the  priest  showed  no  inclination  to  resist,  Ebenezer  could  not 
bring  himself  to  participate  in  the  business.  He  stood  about  uncertainly. 

"Now  that  I  know  you  for  an  agent  of  John  Coode,"  Father  Smith  de- 
clared, "I  am  prepared  to  suffer  any  pain.  You  shall  not  have  the  Journal 
from  my  hands." 

When  Burlingame  growled  and  advanced  another  step,  the  priest 
snatched  a  letter-opener  from  under  his  papers  and  retreated  to  a  farther 
wall,  where,  instead  of  assuming  a  posture  of  defense,  he  placed  the  point 
of  his  weapon  against  his  heart.  "Stand  -fast!"  he  cried,  when  Burlingame 
approached.  "Another  step  and  I  will  end  my  life!" 

Burlingame  halted.  "  Tis  merely  bluff." 

"Hither,  then,  and  give't  the  lie!" 

"And  do  you  believe  your  God  excuses  holy  suicide?" 

"I  know  not  what  He  excuses,"  said  the  priest.  "  Tis  the  Church  I  serve, 
and  I  know  well  they  can  justify  my  act." 

After  a  pause  Burlingame  shrugged,  smiled,  and  replaced  the  poignard 
in  his  belt.  "Pourquoi  est-ce  que  je  taerais  un  homrne  si  loyal  <i  la  cause 
sainte?" 

The  priest's  expression  changed  from  defiance  to  incredulousness.  "What 
did  you  say?" 

"]*<d  dit,  vous  avez  d6montre  votre  fid&itg,  et  aussi  votre  sagesse:  je  ne 
me  confie  pas  &  Nicholson  plus  que  vous.  Allons,  le  Journdl" 


[  386  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

This  tactic  mystified  Ebenezer  no  less  than  Father  Smith.  "I  cannot  fol- 
low your  French,  Henry!"  he  complained.  But  instead  of  translating, 
Burlingame  turned  upon  him  with  the  poignard  and  backed  him  against 
the  wall. 

"You  will  understand  anon,  poor  fool!"  Henry  cried,  and  to  the  still- 
bewildered  priest  he  ordered,  "Fouillez  cet  homme  pour  les  armes,  et  puis 
apportez  le  Journal!" 

"What  hath  possessed  you?"  the  poet  demanded.  Coming  on  the  heels  of 
all  his  other  doubts  about  Burlingame,  this  new  turn  of  events  was  particu- 
larly discomforting. 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  the  priest.  "And  what  credentials  can  you  show?" 

"Parlons  une  langue  plus  douce"  smiled  Burlingame.  "Je  rial  pas 
tfordres  ecrits  de  Baltimore,  et  je  n'en  veux  pas.  Vous  admettrez  qu'il  ne 
soft  pas  la  source  seule  de  l'autorit£?  Quant  &  mes  lettres  de  crfance,  je  les 
porte  toujours  sur  ma  personnel  He  unbuttoned  his  shirt  and  displayed 
the  letters  MC  carved  into  the  skin  of  his  chest.  "Celles-ci  ne  sont  peu 
connues  b  Thomas  Smith?" 

"Monsieur  Casteene!"  exclaimed  Father  Smith.  "Vous  et&s  Monsieur 
Casteene?" 

"Ainsi  que  vous  etes  Jesuite"  Henry  said,  "et  je  peux  faire  plus  que 
Baltimore  ne  reve  pour  debarrasser  ce  lieu  de  protestants  anglais.  Vivent 
James  et  Louis,  et  apportez-moi  le  sacre  Journal!" 

"Oui,  Monsieur,  tout  de  suite!  Si  favais  connu  qui  vous  et&s " 

"Mes  soupgons  n'ont  pas  &6  plus  petits  que  les  votres,  mais  Us  sont 
disparus.  Cet  6pouvantail-ci  parait  fare  loyd  £  Baltimore,  mais  il  riest  pas 
catholique:  s'il  fait  de  la  peine,  je  le  tuerai ..." 

"Oui,  Monsieur!"  said  the  delighted  priest.  "Mais  out,  fapporterai  le 
Journal  tout  de  suite!"  He  ran  to  unlock  an  iron-bound  chest  in  one  corner 
of  the  cabin. 

"What  in  the  name  of  Heav'n  doth  this  mean?"  cried  Ebenezer,  in  an 
anguish  of  doubt 

"What  it  means,"  said  his  companion,  "is  that  I  am  not  this  Henry  you 
took  me  for,  nor  yet  the  Timothy  Mitchell  I  am  called.  I  am  Monsieur 
Casteene!" 

"Who?" 

"Your  fame  hath  not  yet  spread  to  London,  sir,"  the  priest  laughed  from 
the  comer.  He  fetched  a  sheaf  of  manuscript  from  the  chest  and  turned 
scornfully  to  the  Laureate.  "Monsieur  Casteene  is  known  throughout  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  provinces  as  the  Grand  Enemy  of  the  English. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  387  ] 

He  hath  been  Governor  of  Canada,  and  fought  both  Andros  and  Nicholson 
in  New  York/' 

"Until  my  enemies  gained  favor  with  King  Louis  and  undid  me,"  the 
other  said  bitterly. 

"Monsieur  Casteene  then  fled  to  the  Indians,"  Smith  went  on.  "He  lives 
among  them,  and  hath  taken  to  wife  an  Indian  woman " 

"Two  Indian  women,  Father  Smith:  'tis  a  sin  God  will  forgive,  in  return 
for  the  massacre  of  Schenectady." 

"I  had  heard  you  were  on  Colonel  Hermann's  manor  in  Cecil  County," 
said  the  priest.  "Is't  possible  Colonel  Hermann  too  is  more  than  just  Lord 
Baltimore's  man?" 

"With  faith  all  things  are  possible;  at  least  he  denied  my  presence,  and 
disclaimed  any  knowledge  of  the  Naked  Indians." 

"Then  thou'rt  traitors,  the  pair  of  you!"  cried  Ebenezer,  "Thou'rt  a 
traitor,"  he  said  specifically  to  his  companion,  "and  I  took  you  to  be  my 
dear  friend  Burlingame!  How  much  doth  this  discrepancy  explain!" 

The  man  with  the  knife  laughed  a  brief,  derisive  laugh  and  held  out  his 
hand  to  Father  Smith  for  the  Journal.  "Permettez-moi  regarder  ce  livre 
merveilleux  pour  lequel  fat  risqut  ma  vie." 

The  priest  gave  it  to  him  eagerly,  whereupon,  without  hesitation, 
Burlingame  struck  him  such  a  blow  upon  the  back  of  his  neck  that  he  fell 
senseless  to  the  floor. 

"I  had  not  thought  him  such  a  fool!  Find  rope  to  bind  him  with,  Eben, 
and  we  shall  see  what  have  we  here  ere  we  retire." 


25:  FURTHER  PASSAGES  FROM  CAPTAIN  JOHN  SMITH'S 
SECRET  HISTORIE  OF  THE  VOIAGE  UP  THE  BAY  OF 
CHESAPEAKE:  DORCHESTER  DISCOVERED,  AND  HOW 
THE  CAPTAIN  FIRST  SET  FOOT  UPON  IT 


"COME,  BIND  HIM  UP,"  BURLINGAME  REPEATED,  SPREADING  THE  JOURNAL 

open  on  the  table.  "Already  he  hath  commenced  to  stir."  But  seeing  that 
Ebenezer  was  still  too  disorganized  to  act,  he  fetched  some  rope  himself 
from  a  shelf  nearby  and  bound  the  priest's  hands  and  feet.  "At  least  help 
me  lift  him  into  a  chair!" 


[  388  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Reviving,  Father  Smith  winced  and  blinked,  and  then  stared  sullenly  at 
the  Journal.  He  found  his  voice  before  the  poet  did. 

"Who  are  you,  then— John  Coode?" 

Burlingame  laughed.  "Only  Tim  Mitchell,  as  I  said  at  the  outset,  and  a 
loyal  friend  of  Baltimore,  if  not  King  Louis  and  the  Pope.  Thou'rt  a  stiff 
neck  poorer  for  your  lack  of  faith,  my  friend/'  To  Ebenezer,  whose  turbu- 
lent features  betrayed  his  lingering  doubts,  he  explained  further  that  rumors 
had  been  rife  in  Maryland  since  1692  of  the  legendary  Monsieur  Casteene's 
presence  near  the  Pennsylvania  border.  Colonel  Augustine  Hermann  of 
Bohemia  Manor  in  Cecil  County  had  denied  the  presence  of  both 
Casteene  and  the  so-called  Stabbernowles,  or  "Naked  Indians"  of  the  north, 
but  so  great  was  the  fear  of  general  massacre  at  the  hands  of  the  French 
and  the  Indians— especially  in  the  light  of  Maryland  and  Virginia's 
persistent  refusal  to  aid  the  beleaguered  Governor  Fletcher  of  New  York 
and  the  mutual  distrust  among  all  the  provincial  governments — that  the 
rumors  still  persisted,  and  the  most  bizarre  details  of  the  Casteene  legend, 
such  as  that  of  the  scarified  monogram  on  his  chest,  were  widely  believed. 
"I  scratched  those  letters  with  my  dirk  this  evening  in  Oxford/7  he  con- 
cluded, displaying  them  again  in  the  candlelight.  "See  how  fresh  they  are? 
TTwas  a  card  I'd  not  have  played  in  the  light  of  day!" 

Ebenezer  sat  weakly  in  a  chair.  "B'm'faith,  how  you  alarmed  me!  I  know 
you  not  from  one  hour  to  the  next!" 

"Nor  should  you  try.  Pour  out  a  round  of  this  admirable  wine  and  reflect 
on  what  I  told  you  at  the  inn  some  hours  ago."  He  clapped  the  priest  on 
the  shoulder.  "  'Tis  an  ungrateful  guest  that  binds  his  host  to  a  chair  for  the 
night,  but  there's  naught  for't.  Besides,  'tis  for  that  cause  wherefor  you'd 
die,  and  not  by  half  so  sore  a  martyrdom  as  gelding—n'est-ce  pas?"  He 
laughed  at  the  priest's  expression  of  disgust,  and  when  the  wine  was  poured, 
the  guests  commenced  to  read  together  the  verso  (which  was  in  fact  the 
original  recto)  of  their  prize: 

Having  received  such  cordidl  use  [so  this  fragment  of  the  Historic  began] 
at  the  hands  of  those  Salvages  at  Accomack  &  those  at  the  River  of 
wighcocomoco,<wesetoutagaineforthemaine. 

'That  is  the  town  of  Hicktopeake  he  refers  to,"  Ebenezer  volunteered, 
though  in  truth  he  was  entertaining  such  a  mixture  of  feelings  towards  his 
fonner  tutor  that  he  spoke  only  out  of  a  sort  of  shyness.  "The  Laughing 
King  of  whom  I  told  you.  The  other  Indians  I  know  naught  of." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  389  ] 

"There  are  two  rivers  called  Wicomfco  in  Maryland,"  Burlingame  said 
thoughtfully.  "One  near  St.  Mary's  County  on  the  Western  Shore  and  one 
below  Dorchester  County.  Methinks  'tis  the  latter  he  intends,  if  he  coasted 
up  the  Bay  from  Accomac." 

.  .  .  but  for  want  of  fresh  water,  in  two  dales  had  perforce  to  seeke  out  land, 
that  we  might  replenishe  our  supplie.  We  found  some  Isles,  dl  uninhabited  & 
many  in  number,  falling  with  a  high  land  upon  the  maine. 

"Now  where  do  you  suppose  that  is?"  mused  Burlingame.  "I  know  of 
no  high-landed  islands  in  the  Bay." 

"Haply  'twas  but  the  Calvert  cliffs  he  chanced  on,"  Ebenezer  suggested, 
recalling  his  Island  of  the  Seven  Cities.  "Let's  read  on." 

Upon  waying  and  going  ashoar,  we  chanc'd  on  a  pond  of  fresh  water,  but  iv°* 
was  surpassing  warme.  Howbeit,  we  were  so  verie  thirstie,  that  maugre  my.  coun- 
sell  to  the  contrarie,  to  witt,  that  the  water  was  doubtlesse  fowle,  naught  w*  doe 
but  my  companie  must  file  there  barricoes  withal,  &  drinke  therefrom,  till  that 
there  verie  gutts  did  slushe  about.  This  they  learn' d  to  regrett,  but  of  that,  more 
anon. 

From  Wighcocomoco  to  this  place,  dl  the  coast  is  but  low  broken  Isles  of 
Moras,  a  myle  or  two  in  breadth,  &  tenne  or  twelve  in  length,  &  joule  and  stink- 
ing by  reason  of  the  stagnant  waters  therein.  Add  to  wcl1,  the  dre  is  beclowded 
with  vile  meskitoes,  that  sucke  at  a  mans  bloud,  as  though  they  had  never  eate 
before.  It  is  forsooth  no  countrie,  for  any  save  the  Sdvage  .  .  . 

"That  picture  doth  apply  to  one  place  only,"  laughed  Burlingame,  who 
had  read  the  passage  aloud.  "Do  you  know  it,  Father?" 

And  the  priest,  his  historical  curiosity  aroused  despite  his  circumstances, 
smiled  stiffly  and  nodded:  "The  Dorset  marshes." 

"Aye,"  Burlingame  confirmed.  "The  Hooper  Islands,  Bloodsworth  Island, 
and  South  Marsh.  There  is  a  morsel  for  your  epic,  Ebenezer:  the  first  white 
man  to  set  foot  on  Dorset  County." 

Ebenezer  made  perfunctory  acknowledgment,  but  pointed  out  that  as 

yet  the  Captain  had  not  gone  ashore  and  perhaps  would  pass  the  county  by. 

•  He  showed  less  petulance  in  his  reply  to  the  priest,  who  professed  great 

interest  in  the  document  and  chagrin  at  having  been  thitherto  unaware  of 

its  existence,  and  for  his  sake  read  the  remainder  of  it  aloud. 

"Being  thus  refreshed,  despite  my  warnings,  in  moving  over  to  other  Isles,  we 
incounter'd  the  winde  &  waters  so  much  increased  with  thunder,  lightning,  & 
raine,  that  for  all  my  souldiers  &  my  selfe  reefd  &  belay'd  the  saytes 
&  lines,  our  mast  &  sayle  went  by  the  board.  Such  mightie  waves  overrack'd  us  in 
that  smalle  barge,  that  with  great  persuasions  I  indue" d  our  Gentlemen  to 
occupie  them  selves  with  freeing  out  the  water,  in  their  hatts,  for  that  else  we  had 


[  39°  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

fownder'd  &  surike.  We  anchor* d,  being  not  neare  any  place  that  promised  safe 
harbour,  and  there  we  sat  a  miserable  two  daies,  while  the  gusts  did  blowe,  with 
little  to  nourish  our  selves  withal,  save  the  vile  water  in  the  barricoes. 

"This  same  water,  the  w^  my  men  had  taken  against  my  warning,  prov'd  to  be 
foule  indeed,  for  that  upon  slaking  therewith  there  thirstt  all  the  companie  did 
growe  wondrous  grip'd  of  there  bowetts,  and  loose  of  there  bladders,  &  took  a 
weakness  of  there  reins,  so  that  they  still  had  need  of  making  water,  &  of  voiding 
there  severall  bummes.  Little  my  men  did  all  the  day  long,  &  the  night,  while 
that  we  rode  thus  at  anchor,  but  besmirch  them  selves.  At  length,  the 
-wether  being  warm,  if  squallie,  I  did  order  one  &  all  to  divest  them  selves  of  there 
breeches,  the  wch  -were  beshitt  past  rescue,  and  cast  them  to  the  fishes.  This  they 
all  did,  but  with  much  compleynt,  most  markedlie  from  my  rivdl  Burlingame, 
who  looses  no  opening  to  sowe  the  seedes  of  discontent  &  faction." 

"Thank  Heav'n  he  is  still  among  the  party!"  Burlingame  exclaimed.  "I 
feared  old  John  had  done  him  in  after  Accomac." 

44  Tis  no  light  matter  to  choose  betwixt  the  two/'  Ebenezer  remarked. 
"Captain  Smith  is  undeniably  resourceful,  and  no  leader  can  indulge 
factitiousness  save  at  his  peril/' 

"True  enough  for  you,"  Burlingame  replied  curtly.  "He's  not  your 
ancestor.  For  me  there  is  no  problem  in  the  choice." 

"We've  no  certain  knowledge  he  is  your  ancestor,  either,"  the  poet  said. 
"When  all's  said  and  done,  'tis  a  marvelous  slender  chance,  is't  not?" 

This  observation  so  plainly  injured  Burlingame  that  despite  the  possible 
justification  for  his  unkindness  Ebenezer  at  once  regretted  making  it,  and 
apologized. 

"No  matter."  Burlingame  waved  him  away.  "Read  on." 

"Being  left  then,  with  there  bummes  expos'd,  I  did  command,  that  they  set 
them  selves  over  the  gunwales,  inasmuch  as  the  Bay  of  Chesapeake  was  of  greate 
size,  and  c*  accommodate  them  better  then  our  barge.  Yet  this  new  command 
did  little  ease  our  plight,  for  that  dbeit  they  dropp'd  there  matter  to  the  fishes,  - 
the  dre  round  about  was  no  lesse  fouVd  by  there  joynt  labours.  Naught  c*  our 
jy  of  Physick  do  to  improve  them,  and  I  did  wish  heartilie  to  be  on  shoar,  where 
with  the  sapp  of  the  sweet-gumme  tree  &  sundrie  other  herbes,  w°*>  grewe  a-plen- 
tie  in  the  woods  thereabouts,  I  c*  have  brew'd  a  decoction,  that  had  bound  the 
lot  of  them  costive  for  a  fortnight.  Forsooth,  things  did  worsen  yet,  for  that  the 
sillie  men  w*  not  restrayne  there  thirst,  but  still  returned  and  drank  farther  of  the 
water,  whereon  there  fluxes  &  gripes  did  intensifie  apace.  Onely  two  of  our  num- 
ber shew'd  no  sign  of  the  maladie,  namelie  my  selfe,  that  had  not  deign'd  to 
drinkeof  the  barricoes,  but  had  instead  made  my  selfe  to  chewe  upon  raw  fishes, 
and  friend  Burlingame,  that  had  drunke  enough  for  three,  but  that  must  needs 
have  had  a  grand  hold  on  his  reins,  for  that  he  never  did  besmirch  him  selfe 
throughout  those  foule  two  daies. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  391  1 

"When  the  storme  at  length  overblewe  us,  and  the  -wether  againe  shew'd  faire, 
I  did  with  all  haste  order,  that  the  sayle  be  repair' d,  and  this  the  companie  did 
with  right  good  will,  using  of  there  shirts  for  clouts.  They  were  most  readie  to 
abandon  the  maine,  and  sayle  for  some  shoar,  albeit  they  were  now  naked  as 
Father  Adam,  so  as  to  put  food  &  cleanlie  water  into  there  bellies,  and  pass 
off  there  fluxes  at  last.  For  the  extremitie  of  gusts,  thunder,  rayne,  storms,  &  ill 
wether,  we  did  call  those  Straites,  wherein  we  had  for  so  long  layn,  Limbo,  but  I 
think,  with  all  the  farting  and  ill  businesse  that  did  pass  there,  we  had  better 
calVd  them  Purgatorio. 

After  a  surpassing  clumsie  daye  of  sayling,  making  smaHe  headway,  for  the 
crewe  must  continudlie  hang  there  bummes  abeame,  we  fell  with  a  prettie  con- 
venient river  on  the  East,  cdled  Cuskarawaok  .  .  ." 

"That  is  a  word  from  the  Nanticoke  tongue/'  Father  Smith  interrupted. 
"I  have  not  learnt  its  meaning,  but  in  old  times  it  was  applied  to  that  same 
river  we  call  the  Nanticoke  today/' 

"Ffaith,  then!"  Burlingame  laughed.  "'Tis  precious  little  grcrand  he 
gained  for  all  those  evil  days!"  He  explained  to  Ebenezej  that  the 
Nanticoke  River,  which  marks  the  boundary  between  Dorchester  and 
Somerset  Counties,  empties  into  Tangier  Sound  conjointly  with  the 
Wicomico,  from  where,  the  record  seemed  to  imply,  Smith  had  departed 
several  days  previously. 

"AZZ  that  made  the  day  attractive  to  me  [Ebenezer  read  on],  for  it  were  other- 
wise malodourous  enow,  was,  that  Burlingarhes  bowells  did  seem  to  commence 
troubling  him,  for  that  he  did  still  wander  hither  to  yon  in  the  barge,  his  face 
shewing  ever  more  discomfort,  and  crost  &  recrost  his  leggs,  and  his  want  of 
composure  was  a  tastie  thing  to  watch.  When  that  he  shd  findlie  let  fie,  I  guess' d 
it  wd  prove  a  spectacle  in  sooth,  by  reason  of  his  greate  corpulencie,  and  the 
lengthie  space  he  had  held  fast  his  reins  .  .  " 

"Cruel  man,"  said  Burlingame,  "to  savor  so  the  wretch's  plight!  And 
thou'rt  reading  with  the  same  ungentle  relish,  Ebenl" 

"Beg  pardon."  Ebenezer  smiled.  "  'Tis  that  the  wonder  oft  stirs  my  in- 
terest as  I  read.  I  fancy  he  is  about  to  land  on  Dorset." 

And  in  a  tone  somewhat  less  partial  he  continued: 

"We  made  straightwaye  for  shoar,  but  cd  by  no  means  land,  seeing  a  great 
bodie  of  Salvages  appear  from  the  woods,  making  everie  signe  of  hostilitie. 
Whenas  they  sawe  what  manner  of  men  we  were,  not  having  seen  the  like  before, 
they  ran  as  amaz'd  from  place  to  place,  divers  got  into  the  tops  of  trees,  and  they 
were  not  sparing  of  there  arrowes,  nor  the  greatest  passion  they  cd  expresse  of 
there  anger.  Long  they  shot,  we  still  ryding  at  Anchor  without  there  reatch  mak- 
ing dl  the  signes  of  friendship  we  c*.  But  this  was  a  hard  matter,  inasmuch  as  for 
everie  cheerie  wave  of  the  hand  I  signdl'd  them,  some  souldier  or  Gentkmen  in 


[  392  1  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

my  companie  must  needs  let  goe  a  fart,  w°u  the  Salvages  did  take  as  an  affront, 
and  threwe  more  arrowes.  • 

"Next  day  they,  return' dt  all  unarm*  d,  and  -with  everie  one  a  basket,  and  danc'd 
in  a  ring,  to  drawe  us  on  shoar:  but  seeing  there  was  naught  in  them  save  villainie, 
we  discharg'd  a  volley  of  muskets  chargd  'with  pistoll  shot,  whereat  they  all  lay 
tumbling  on  the  grownd,  creeping  some  one  way,  some  another,  into  a  greate  clus- 
ter of  reedes  hard  by,  where  there  companies  lay  in  Ambuscado.  We  waited,  and 
it  seeming  they  had  left  the  place,  we  way'd  &  approach* d  the  shoar,  for  that  all 
were  eager  to  quitt  for  a  time  our  barge.  My  thought  was,  to  land  as  quietlie  as 
possible,  catch  what  food  &  fresh  water  we  might,  &  then  to  flie  to  some  more 
cordiall  place:  for  that  reason  I  did  command,  that  whereas  none  among  my 
crewe  c?  leave  off  his  bumme-shotts,  the  wch  wd  surelie  give  notice  of  our  coming, 
then  everie  man,  that  felt  the  need  on  him,  must  thrust  his  buttockes  by  the 
board,  so  far  as  to  the  water,  and  thus  immers'd,  do  what  he  wd.  But  the  first  to 
attempt  this,  one  Anas  Todkill  a  souldier,  had  no  sooner  wet  his  hammes,  then 
he  was  stung  athwart  the  tayle  by  a  greate  Sea-Nettle,  a  sort  of  white  jellie-fish  wch 
doth  occur  in  number  in  these  waters,  raysing  upon  his  buttockes  a  red  welt,  and 
causing  him  payne.  Whereafter,  it  was  onely  by  dint  of  much  intreatie,  that  I 
got  any  other  man  to  do  the  same.  As  for  Burlingame,  the  imminence  of  his 
coming  defecation  shew'd  over  all  his  face,  and  he  durst  not  even  speake,  lest  he 
expload;  but  the  business  of  the  Sea-Nettle  did  give  him  such  a  fright,  he  wrest? d 
with  him  selfe,  to  hold  on  but  a  minute  more,  when  that  we  shd  be  ashoar. 

"The  prowe  of  our  barge  striking  land  (the  w°h  was  but  reedes  &  mudd),  I 
flung  our  anchor  as  far  inland  as  I  cd,  and  we  did  make  readie  to  disembark.  As 
-was  my  wont,  I  steppfd  up  on  the  spritt,  and  wd  have  leapt  ashoar,  for  that  I  still 
reserve  the  privilege  of  stepping  first  on  everie  new-found  grownd,  and  this  place 
was  to  be  no  exception.  But  Burlingame,  in  his  passion  to  get  off  the  vessell,  to 
the  end  of  jettisoning  his  filthie  cargoe,  did  rudelie  push  me  aside,  for  all  I  was  his 
Captain  and  erst  his  Saviour,  and  assum'd  the  place  ahead.  I  was  on  the  instant 
wroth,  at  his  impertinencie,  and  w*  have  layd  hands  on  him,  but  that  at  the  same 
moment  a  troup  of  Salvages  leapt  from  some  scrubbie  growth  near  by,  and 
snatch' d  up  the  anchor  pendant,  purposing  thereby  to  pull  us  high  &  drie,  and 
capture  us  &  our  vessell  as  well  With  this  turn  of  affaires,  I  was  content  that 
Burlingame  s*d  remayne  in  the  van,  to  afford  the  rest  of  us  the  protection  of  his 
fatt  carcase" 

"Ah  God/'  murmured  Burlingame,  "I  fear  my  ancestor  is  in  a  pickle!" 
The  proper  strategic  [Ebenezer  continued!  was  to  frye  a  charge  of  shot  at  the 
heathens  to  drive  them  loose,  but  they  were  nigh  upon  us,  and  I  confesse  we  had 
not  a  musket  loaded,  for  that  I  had  thought  the  shoar  vacated  of  Salvages.  Then 
I  might  well  have  cut  the  pendant,  and  so  rid  us  of  them,  but  I  was  loath  to 
sacrifice  our  anchor,  that  had  serv'd  us  well  in  the  storme  just  past,  and  w0*  we 
s™  doubtlesse  need  againe.  Besides  w°\  the  Salvages  had  appear9 d  on  such  a  sud- 
den, I  scarce  had  time  to  think  aright.  In  fine,  I  did  not  choose  either  of  these 
courses,  but  snatch* d  our  end  of  the  pendant,  and  handing  it  back  among  the 
crewe,  we  pulTd  in  a  line  against  the  Salvages,  to  regayn  our  anchor  &  our  liber- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  393  ] 

tie.  The  Salvages,  luckilie,  were  unarm9  d,  hoping  to  have  us  ashoar  without  difft- 
cultie,  and  thus  we  were  not  expos'd  to  there  arrowes.  Burlingame  was  too  pos- 
sess9 d  by  feare  to  aid  us,  but  stood  dl  witlesse  on  the  bow,  and  c*  nowise  step  back 
into  the  vessell,  for  that  dl  of  us  were  crowded  behind,  heaving  on  the  rope. 

"The  tugg-o'-war  that  then  insued  had  been  a  sporting  match,  w°n  methinks 
we  had  won,  were  it  that  naught  had  interfear'd  with  the  murtherous  game.  But 
the  Salvages  giving  out  with  terrible  whoops  &  hollowings,  did  so  smite  with 
fear  this  Burlingame,  that  at  last  he  forewent  entire  the  hold  of  his  reins,  and 
standing  yet  in  our  prowe  like  unto  an  uglie  figure-head,  he  did  let  flie  the  treasure 
he  had  been  those  severdLl  daies  a-hoarding.  It  was  my  ill  fortune  to  be  hard  be- 
hind him,  and  moreover,  crowch'd  down  beneath  his  mightie  bumme,  so  as  to 
better  brace  my  feet  for  pulling,  and  looking  up  at  that  instant  of  time,  to  see 
whether  Burlingame  was  yet  with  us,  I  was  in  a  trice  beshitt,  so  much  so,  that  I 
cd  by  no  meanes  see  out  of  my  eyes,  or  speake  out  of  my  mowth.  Then  the  Sal- 
vages gave  a  great  pull  on  the  pendant,  and  the  deck  all  bemufd,  I  did  loose  the 
purchase  of  my  feet,  and  sayling  betwixt  Burlingames  legs,  did  end  face  downe  in 
the  mud  of  the  shoar.  This  same  Burlingame  thus  knocked  from  off  his  bdlance, 
he  fell  after,  and  sat  him  square  upon  my  head. 

"Directlie  I  freed  my  mowth  of  turd  &  mud,  I  hottow'd  for  my  souldiers  to 
load  &  fyre  upon  the  Sdvages,  but  those  same  Sdvages  did  leap  straightway  upon 
me,  and  upon  Burlingame  as  well,  and  imploying  us  to  sheeld  them  &  as 
hostages,  demanded  by  signes  the  surrender  of  the  companie.  I  order'd  them  to 
shoot  &  be  damnfd,  but  they  were  loath  to  fyre,  for  jeare  of  hitting  me,  and  so 
we  did  surrender  our  selves  up  to  the  Salvage,  and  were  led  prisoner  to  his  town. 

"Thus  was  it,  in  a  manner  not  my  wont,  I  first  touched  the  shoar  of  this  scurvie 
place,  whereof  an  ampler  relation  doth  follow  .  .  ." 

The  final  passages  Ebenezer  could  scarcely  read  for  laughing;  even  the 
captive  priest  could  not  restrain  his  mirth.  For  a  moment  Burlingame 
seemed  not  to  realize  that  the  recitation  was  done,  but  then  he  sat  up 
quickly. 

"Is  that  the  end?" 

"  Tis  the  end  of  this  portion/'  Ebenezer  sighed,  wiping  his  eyes.  'Tfaith, 
such  intrepidity!  And  by  what  a  marvelous  means  my  county  was  dis- 
covered!" 

"But  God  in  Heav'n,"  cried  Burlingame,  "this  is  no  stopping-place!"  He 
snatched  up  the  Journal  to  look  for  himself.  "That  wretched,  hapless  man- 
how  I  suffer  for  him!  And  I  tell  you,  Eben;  though  I  do  not  share  his  form, 
with  every  new  episode  I  feel  more  certain  Sir  Henry  is  my  forefather.  I 
felt  it  when  first  I  learnt  of  him  from  those  ladies  that  I  saved,  and  more  so 
when  I  read  his  Privie  JournalL  How  much  more  now,  then,  that  we  have 
him  in  Dorchester!  He  is  halfway  up  the  Chesapeake,  is  he  not?  And  'twas 
there  that  Captain  Salmon  fished  me  out!" 


[  594  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"It  is  a  curious  proximity,  forsooth,"  Ebenezer  allowed,  "but  nearly  fifty 
years  divide  the  two  events,  if  I  guess  aright.  And  since  we  know  John  Smith 
returned  anon  to  Jamestown,  we've  no  proof  Sir  Henry  was  marooned  be- 
hind." 

"You'd  as  well  prove  to  this  Jesuit  that  St.  Joseph  was  a  cuckold," 
Burlingame  laughed.  "I  am  as  sure  of  my  progenitor  as  he  is  of  Christ's, 
though  the  exact  line  of  descent  we've  yet  to  learn.  'Sheart,  I'd  give  an  arm 
to  hear  the  finish  of  that  tale!" 

These  remarks  aroused  Father  Smith's  curiosity,  and  he  entreated 
Burlingame  to  explain  the  mystery  before  departing. 

"Think  not  you'll  see  us  go  so  soon!"  Henry  replied,  but  their  attention 
to  the  history  having  dispelled  the  general  ill  will  among  the  three,  he  went 
on  to  say  that  though  his  name  was  Timothy  Mitchell  he  was  but  a  foster 
child  of  Captain  William  Mitchell,  and  had  reason  to  suspect  that  Sir  Henry 
Burlingame  was  in  some  wise  his  ancestor.  He  then  favored  the  priest  with 
a  full  account  of  his  researches  and  the  fruit  they  had  borne  thus  far,  but 
despite  this  general  cordiality  with  which  the  evening  closed,  he  insisted 
that  Father  Smith  be  released  only  long  enough  to  relieve  himself  under 
careful  guard,  after  which  the  unfortunate  priest  was  obliged  to  spend  the 
night  bound  upright  in  his  chair  while  the  two  visitors  shared  his  bed. 

Nevertheless,  before  the  candle  had  been  extinguished  for  half  an  hour, 
Ebenezer  was  the  only  man  in  the  cabin  still  awake.  Never  an  easy  sleeper, 
he  was  additionally  distracted  this  night  by  the  presences  of  his  friend  and 
his  unwilling  host— specifically  because  the  former  (in  sleep,  it  is  to  be  pre- 
sumed) held  his  hand  in  a  grip  from  which  the  poet  was  too  embarrassed 
to  pull  free,  and  the  latter  snored;  but  more  generally  because  he  could  not 
as  yet  reconcile  and  assimilate  all  the  aspects  of  Burlingame's  character  to 
which  he  had  been  exposed,  and  because  Father  Smith's  apparent  connec- 
tion with  the  French  and  Indians,  while  it  did  not  in  itself  reflect  discredit 
on  Lord  Baltimore,  nevertheless  cast  a  new  and  complicated  light  upon 
that  gentleman's  endeavor.  Nor  were  these  troublesome  reflections  the  sum 
of  his  diversion:  never  far  from  his  mind  was  the  image  of  Joan  Toast,  her 
flashing  eyes  and  spirited  limbs!  Despite  Burlingame's  skepticism,  Ebene- 
zer was  confident  of  Susan  Warren's  veracity;  he  fully  expected  to  find 
his  beloved  (for  so  he  thought  of  Joan  Toast)  waiting  for  him  when 
he  arrived  at  Maiden,  if  not  on  the  morrow  then  surely  two  days  hence. 
When,  after  such  a  harrowing  odyssey  as  his—and  who  knew  what 
peregrinations  of  poor  Joan's?— they  were  at  last  reunited  on  his  own 
estate-to-be,  what  would  ensue?  There  was  fuel  to  fire  a  poet's  fancy! 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  395  ] 

In  short,  he  could  not  sleep,  and  though  as  a  rule  he  would  have  dwelt 
with  his  insomnia  until  dawn,  Burlingame's  handgrip  made  the  contest  less 
than  equal.  Finally,  therefore,  after  an  hour's  unpleasantness,  he  summoned 
courage  enough  to  leave  the  bed.  From  the  wood-coals  on  the  hearth  he 
lit  a  new  candle,  and  making  free  with  the  sleeping  Jesuit's  ink  and  quill,  he 
spread  out  his  ledger-book  to  ease  himself  with  verse. 

But  for  the  sober  thoughts  that  filled  his  head  he  could  find  no  fit  articu- 
lation; what  he  composed,  simply  because  he  had  previously  entered  on  the 
opposite  page  certain  notes  upon  the  subject,  was  nothing  more  sublime 
or  apropos  than  two  score  couplets  having  to  do  with  the  Salvage  Indians 
of  America.  The  feat  afforded  him  no  solace,  but  at  least  it  wearied  him 
through  and  through:  when  he  could  hold  his  eyes  open  no  longer  he  blew 
out  the  candle,  and  leaving  the  bed  to  Burlingame,  laid  his  head  upon  his 
ledger-book  and  slept. 


26:    THE  JOURNEY  TO  CAMBRIDGE,  AND  THE 
LAUREATE'S  CONVERSATION  BY  THE  WAY 


WHEN  MORNING  CAME,  BURLINGAME   FREED  FATHER  SMITH  FROM   HIS 

bonds  and  took  it  upon  himself  to  prepare  a  breakfast  while  the  priest 
exercised  his  aching  limbs.  All  the  while,  however,  he  kept  the  Journal  near 
at  hand,  and  despite  the  Jesuit's  disclaimer  of  any  further  intent  to  stop 
them,  he  insisted  that  the  priest  be  bound  again  when  the  meal  was  finished 
and  they  were  ready  to  depart,  nor  would  he  listen  to  Ebenezer's  pleas  for 
clemency. 

"You  infer  the  rest  of  mankind  from  yourself/'  he  chided.  "Because  you 
would  not  try  farther  to  obstruct  me  if  you  were  in  his  position,  you  believe 
he  would  not  either.  To  which  I  reply,  my  reasoning  is  identical  to  yours, 
and  I  would  have  me  back  the  Journal  ere  you  reached  the  Choptank 
River/' 

"But  he  will  perish!  'Tis  as  much  as  murthering  him!" 

"No  such  thing,"  scoffed  Burlingame.  "If  he  is  a  proper  priest  he  will 
be  missed  at  once  by  his  parishioners,  who  will  seek  him  out  and  have  him 
loose  ere  midday.  If  not,  they  will  repay  neglect  with  neglect,  as  his  God 
would  have  it— or  rather,  his  Order." 

This  last,  a  reference  to  the  priest's  startling  remark  of  the  evening  past, 


SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

he  directed  with  a  smile  to  Father  Smith,  who  sat  impassively  in  his  chair, 
and  added,  "We  are  obliged  to  you  for  bed  and  board,  sir,  and  your 
unimpeachable  Jerez.  You  may  look  to  see  John  Coode  in  trouble  soon, 
and  know  that  you  have  done  your  part,  albeit  reluctantly."  He  ushered 
Ebenezer  to  the  door.  "Adieu,  Father:  when  you  commence  your  holy 
war,  spare  my  friend  here,  who  hath  pled  in  your  behalf.  As  for  me, 
Monsieur  Casteene  himself  could  never  find  me.  Ignatius  vobiscum" 

"Er  vobiscum  diabolus"  replied  the  priest. 

Thus  they  left,  Ebenezer  too  ashamed  to  bid  their  host  farewell,  and, 
after  saddling  their  horses,  struck  out  along  a  road  that,  so  Burlingame  de- 
clared, curved  southward  in  wide  arc  to  the  Choptank  River  ferry,,  whence 
they  planned  to  cross  to  Cambridge,  inquire  the  whereabouts  of  William 
Smith,  and  then  proceed  to  Maiden.  It  was  a  magnificent  autumn  day, 
brisk  and  bright,  and  whatever  the  Laureate's  mood,  Burlingame's  was 
clearly  buoyant. 

"One  more  portion  of  Smith's  history  to  find!"  he  cried  as  their  horses 
ambled  down  the  road.  "Only  think  on't:  I  may  soon  learn  who  I  am!" 

"Let  us  hope  this  William  Smith  is  less  refractory,"  the  poet  replied.  "One 
may  acquire  more  guilt  in  learning  who  he  is  than  the  answer  can  atone 
for." 

Apparently  chastened,  Burlingame  rode  on  some  minutes  in  silence  be- 
fore he  tried  again  to  begin  a  conversation. 

"Methinks  Lord  Baltimore  was  ill-advised  on  the  character  of  that  Jesuit, 
but  a  general  cannot  know  all  of  his  lieutenants.  There  is  a  saying  among 
the  Papists,  Do  not  judge  the  entire  priesthood  by  a  priest.  'Tis  to  the  point 
here,  is't  not?" 

"There  is  another  from  the  Gospels,"  said  Ebenezer.  "By  their  fruits  ye 
shall  know  them.  .  .  ." 

"Thotfrt  too  severe,  my  friend!"  Burlingame  showed  a  measure  of 
impatience.  "Is't  that  you  did  not  sleep  enough  last  night?" 

The  Laureate  blushed.  "Last  night  I  had  in  mind  some  verses,  and  wrote 
them  down  lest  I  forget  them." 

"Indeed!  I'm  pleased  to  heart;  you  have  been  too  long  away  from  your 
muse." 

The  solicitude  in  his  friend's  voice  removed,,  at  least  for  the  time  being, 
Ebenezer's  perturbation,  and,  though  he  suspected  that  he  was  being 
humored,  he  smiled  and  with  some  shyness  said,  "Their  subject  is  the  salvage 
Indian,  that  I  am  much  impressed  by." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  397  ] 

"Then  out  on't,  I  must  hear  them!  I  too  am  a  great  admirer  of  the 
salvage." 

After  some  hesitation  Ebneezer  consented,  not  especially  because  he 
thought  Burlingame's  eagerness  was  genuine,  but  rather  because  in  the 
welter  of  conflicting  sentiment  he  experienced  towards  his  friend,  and  de- 
spite Burlingame' s  occasional  criticism  of  his  verse,  his  poetic  gift  was  the 
only  ground  that  in  his  relations  with  his  former  tutor  he  felt  he  could 
stand  upon  firmly  and  without  abashment.  He  fished  out  his  notebook 
from  the  large  pocket  of  his  coat  and,  leaving  his  mare  to  walk  without 
direction,  opened  to  the  freshly  written  couplets. 

"  Twas  a  salvage  we  saw  yesterday  morning  that  prompted  me,"  he  ex- 
plained, "the  one  you  showed  me  chasing  after  deer." 

"Indeed,,  the  brave  Piscataway!"  Burlingame  recalled.  "He  was  a  hand- 
some buck,  now,  was  he  not?  I  rather  envy  any  lass  he  sets  his  eye  on!" 

"Here  are  the  verses,  whatever  their  worth,"  Ebenezer  said  quickly,  and 
began  to  read,  his  voice  jogging  with  the  steps  of  his  horse: 

"Scarce  had  I  left  the  Captains  Board 
And  taking  Horse,  made  Tracks  toward 
The  Chesapeake,  -when,  giving  Chase 
To  flighty  Deer,  a  horrid  Face 

Came  into  View:  a  Salvage  'twas 

We  stay'd  our  Circumbendibus 

To  look  on  Him,  and  He  on  u&. 

O'ercoming  soon  my  first  Surprize, 

I  set  myself  to  scrutinize 

His  Visage  mid,  his  Form  exotick 

Barb'rous  Air,  and  Dress  erotick, 

His  brawny  Shoulders,  greas'd  and  bare 

His  Member,  all  devoid  of  Hair 

And  swinging  free,  his  painted  Skin 

And  naked  Chest,  inviting  Sin 

With  Ladies  w/io,  their  Beauty  faded, 

Husbands  dead,  or  Pleasures  jaded, 

Fly  from  Virtues  narrow  Way 

Into  the  Forest,  there  to  lay 

With  Salvages,  to  their  Damnation 

Sinning  by  their  Copulation, 

Lewdness,  Lust,  and  Fornication, 

All  at  once  .  .   " 

"Well  writ!"  cried  Burlingame.  "Save  for  your  preachment  at  the  last, 
'tis  much  the  same  sentiment  as  my  own."  He  laughed.  "I  do  suspect  you 


[  598  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

had  more  on  your  mind  last  night  than  just  the  heathen:  all  that  love-talk 
makes  me  yearn  for  my  sweet  Portia!" 

"Stay,"  the  poet  cautioned  at  once.  "Fall  not  into  the  vulgar  error  of 
the  critics,  that  judge  a  work  ere  they  know  the  whole  of  it.  I  go  on  to 
speculate  whence  came  the  Indian." 

"Your  pardon,"  Burlingame  said.  "If  the  rest  is  excellent  as  the  first, 
thou'rt  a  poet  in  sooth." 

Ebenezer  flushed  with  pleasure  and  read  on,  somewhat  more  forcefully: 

'"Whence  came  this  barb'rous  Salvage  Race, 
That  wanders  yet  o'er  MARYLANDS  Face? 
Descend  they  all  from  those  old  Sires, 
Remarked  by  Plato  and  such  like  Liars 
From  lost  Atlantis,  sunken  yet 
Beneath  the  Ocean,  cold  and  wet? 
Or  is  he  wiser  who  ascribes 
Their  Genesis  to  those  ten  Tribes 
Of  luckless  Jews,  that  broke  away 
From  Israel,  and  to  this  Day 
Have  left  no  Traces,  Signs,  or  Clews — 
Are  Salvages  but  beardless  Jews? 
Or  are  they  sprung,  as  some  maintain, 
From  that  same  jealous,  incestuous  Cain, 
Who  with  twin  Sister  fain  had  lay'd 
And  whose  own  Brother  anon  he  slay'd: 
Fleeing  then  Jehovah's  Wrath 
Did  wend  his  cursed,  rambling  Path 
To  MARYLANDS  Doorsill,  there  to  hide 
In  penance  for  his  Fratricide, 
And  hiding,  found  no  livelier  Sport 
Than  siring  Heathens,  tall  and  short? 
Still  others  hold,  these  dark-skinn'd  Folk 
Escapfd  the  Deluge  all  unsoak'd 
That  carrfd  off  old  Noahs  Ark 
Upon  its  long  and  wat'ry  Lark, 
And  drcrwn'd  all  Manner  of  Men  save  Two:     \ 
The  Sailors  in  Old  Noahs  Crew  ( 

(That  after  all  were  but  a  Few),  ) 

And  this  same  brawny  Salvage  Host, 
Who,  safe  behind  fair  MARYLANDS  Coast, 
Saw  other  Mortals  sink  and  die 
Whilst  they  remained  both  high  and  dry. 
Another  Faction  claims  to  trace 
The  Hist'ry  of  this  bare-Burmrid  Race 
Back  to  Mankinds  Pucelage, 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  399  ] 

That  Ovid  calls  the  Golden  Age: 

When  kindly  Saturn  rul'd  the  Roost. 

Their  learned  Fellows  have  deduc'd 

The  Salvage  Home  to  be  that  Garden 

Wherein  three  Sisters  play'd  at  Warden 

Over  Heras  Golden  Grove, 

Whose  Apples  were  a  Treasure-Trove: 

That  Orchard  robb'd  by  Hercules, 

The  Garden  of  Hesperides; 

While  other  Scholards,  no  less  wise, 

Uphold  the  Earthly  Paradise — 

Old  Adams  Home,  and  Eves  to  boot, 

Wherein  they  gorg'd  forbidden  Fruit — 

To  be  the  Source  and  Fountainhead 

Of  Salvag'ry.  Some,  better  read 

In  Arthurs  Tales,  have  settVd  on 

The  Blessed  Isles  of  Avalon, 

And  others  say  the  fundamental 

Flavoring  is  Oriental, 

Or  that  mayhap  ancient  Viking, 

Finding  MARYLAND  to  his  liking, 

Stay'd,  and  fathered  red-skinn'd  Horsemen: 

One  Part  Salvage,  Two  Parts  Norsemen. 

Others  say  the  grand  Ambitions 

Of  the  restless  old  Phoenicians 

Led  'that  hardy  Sailor  Band 

To  the  Shores  of  MARYLAND, 

In  Ships  so  cramm'd  with  Man  and  Beast 

No  Room  remain' d  for  Judge  or  Priest: 

There,  with  Lasses  and  Supplies, 

The  Men  commenced  to  colonize 

This  foreign  Shore  in  Manner  dastard, 

All  their  Offspring  being  Bastard. 

Finally,  if  any  Persons 

Unpersuaded  by  these  Versions 

Of  the  Salvages  Descent 

Should  ask  still  for  the  Truth  anent 

Their  Origins — why,  such  as  these, 

That  are  so  damned  hard  to  please, 

I  send  to  Mephistopheles, 

Who  engendered  in  the  Fires  of  Hell 

The  Indians,  and  them  as  well!" 

"Now,  that  is  all  damned  clever!"  Burlingame  exclaimed  when  Ebenezer 
had  finished.  "Whether  'twas  the  hardships  of  your  crossing  or  a  half  year' s 


[  ^OO  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

added  age,  I  swear  thou'rt  twice  the  poet  you  were  in  Plymouth.  The  lines 
on  Cain  I  thought  especially  well-wrought." 

"  Tis  kind  of  you  to  praise  the  piece/7  Ebenezer  said.  "Haply  'twill  be 
a  part  of  the  Marylandiad." 

"I  would  I  could  turn  a  verse  so  well!  But  say,  while  'tis  fresh  in  my 
mind,  doth  persons  really  rhyme  with  versions,  and  folk  with  soak'd?" 

"Indeed  yes/'  the  poet  replied. 

"But  would  it  not  be  better/'  Burlingame  persisted  cordially,  "to  rhyme 
versions  with  dispersions,  say,  and  folk  with  soak?  Of  course,  I  am  no  poet." 

"One  need  not  be  a  hen  to  judge  an  egg/'  Ebenezer  allowed.  "The  fact 
oft  is,  the  rhymes  you  name  are  at  once  better  and  worse  than  mine:  better, 
because  they  sound  more  nearly  like  the  words  they  rhyme  with;  and  worse, 
because  such  closeness  is  not  the  present  fashion.  Dispersion  and  version: 
'tis  wanting  in  character,  is't  not?  But  person  and  version— there  is  surprise, 
there  is  color,  there  is  witl  In  fine,  there  is  a  perfect  Hudibrastic." 

"Hudibrastic,  is  it?  I  have  heard  the  folk  in  Locket's  speak  well  of 
Hudibras,  but  I  always  thought  it  tedious  myself.  What  is't  you  mean  by 
Hudibrastic?" 

Ebenezer  could  scarcely  believe  that  Burlingame  was  really  ignorant  of 
Hudibrastic  rhyme  or  anything  else,  but  so  pleasant  was  the  reversal  of  their 
usual  roles  that  he  found  it  easy  to  put  by  his  skepticism. 

"A  Hudibrastic  rhyme,"  he  explained,  "is  a  rhyme  that  is  close,  but  not 
just  harmonious.  Take  the  noun  wagon;  what  would  you  rhyme  with  it?" 

"Why,  now,  let's  see,"  Burlingame  mused.  "Methinks  flagon  would  serve, 
or  dragon,  wouldn't  you  say?" 

"Not  at  all,"  smiled  Ebenezer.  "  Tis  too  expected;  'tis  what  any  poetaster 
might  suggest— no  offense,  you  understand." 

"None  whatever." 

"Nay,  to  wagon  you  must  rhyme  bag  in,  or  sagging:  almost,  you  see,  but 
not  quite. 

The  Indians  catt  their  wafry  Wagon 
Canoe,  a  Vessel  none  can  brag  on. 

Wagon,  brag  on^do  you  follow  me?" 

"I  grasp  the  principle,"  Burlingame  declared,  "and  I  recall  such  rhymes 
as  that  in  Hudibras;  but  I  doubt  me  I  could  e'er  apply  it."  ' 

"Why,  of  course  you  can!  It  wants  but  courage,  Henry.  Take  quarrel, 
now:  The  Man  and  I  commenced  to  quarrel  What  shall  we  rhyme  with  it?" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  401  ] 

Burlingame  pondered  the  problem  for  a  while.  "What  would  you  say  to 
snarl?"  he  ventured  at  last. 

"The  Man  and  I  commenc'd  to  quarrel: 
I  to  grumble,  he  to  snarl" 

"The  line  is  good/'  replied  the  Laureate,  "and  bespeaks  some  wit.  But 
the  rhyme  is  humorless.  Quarrel,  snarl— nay,  'tis  too  close." 

"Sorrel,  then?"  asked  Burlingame,  apparently  warming  to  the  sport. 

"The  Man  and  I  commenc'd  to  quarrel 
Who'd  ride  the  Roan,  and  who  the  Sorrel" 

"E'en  wittier!"  the  poet  applauded.  "Tis  better  than  Tom  Trent  could 
pen,  with  Dick  Merriweather  to  help  him!  But  you've  still  no  Hudibrastic. 
Quarrel,  snarl;  quarrel,  sorrel." 

"I  yield,"  said  Burlingame. 

"Consider  this,  then: 

The  Man  and  I  commenc'd  to  quarrel 
Anent  the  Style  of  our  Apparel. 

Quarrel,  apparel:  that  is  Hudibrastic." 

"Quarrel,  appareir  Burlingame  made  a  wry  face.  "They  clash  and 

jingle!" 

''Precisely.  The  more  the  clash,  the  better  the  couplet/' 
"Aha,  then!"  cried  the  tutor.  "What  says  my  Laureate  to  this? 

The  Man  and  I  commenc'd  to  quarrel 
Who'd  ride  the  Roan  and  -who  the  Dapple. 

Is't  not  a  thing  of  beauty?"" 

"Quarrel  and  dapple?"  Ebenezer  exclaimed. 

"Doth  it  not  jangle  like  the  brassy  bells  of  Hades?" 

"Nay,  nay,  'twill  never  do!"  Ebenezer  shook  his  head  firmly.  "I  had 
thought  you'd  caught  the  essence  oft,  but  the  words  must  needs  have  some 
proximity  if  they're  to  jangle.  Quarrel  and  dapple  are  ships  in  different 
oceans:  they  cannot  possibly  collide,  and  a  collision  is  what  we  seek." 

"Then  try  this,"  Burlingame  suggested,  not  in  the  least  daunted  by  the 
Laureate's  chiding. 

"The  Man  and  I  commenc'd  to  quarrel 
Whose  turn  it  was  to  ivoo  the  Barrel." 

"Barrel!  Barrel,  you  say?"  Ebenezer's  face  grew  red.  "What  is  this  barrel? 
How  would  you  use  it?" 


[  AQ2  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"  Tis  a  Hudibrastic,"  replied  Burlingame  with  a  smile.  "I'd  use  it  to  piss 
in." 

"B'm'faith,  'tis  a  pisser  at  that!"  He  laughed  uncomfortably.  "Tis  the 
pissingest  Hudibrastic  ever  I've  heard!" 

'Will  you  hear  more?"  asked  Burlingame.  "I  am  a  diligent  student  of 
jangling  rhyme." 

"Piss  on't,"  the  poet  declared.  "Thy  lesson's  done!" 

"Nay,  I  am  just  grasping  the  spirit  oft!  Haply  I'll  take  up  versifying  my- 
self someday,  for't  seems  no  backbreaking  chore." 

"But  you  know  the  saying,  Henry:  A  poet  is  born,  not  made." 

"Out  on't!"  Burlingame  scoffed.  "Were  you  not  made  Laureate  ere  you'd 
penned  a  proper  verse?  I'll  wager  I  could  rhyme  with  the  cleverest,  did  I 
choose  to  put  my  nose  to't." 

"No  man  knows  better  than  I  your  various  gifts,"  Ebenezer  said  in  an 
injured  tone.  "Yet  your  true  poet  may  have  no  other  gift  than  verse." 

"Only  try  me,"  Burlingame  challenged.  "Name  me  some  names,  and  hear 
me  rhyme." 

"Very  well,  but  there's  more  to  verse  than  matching  words.  You  must 
couple  me  a  line  to  the  line  I  fling  you." 

"Fling  away  thy  lines,  and  see  what  fine  fish  you  hook  on  'em!" 

"Stand  fast,"  warned  Ebenezer,  "for  Til  start  you  with  a  hard  one:  Then 
did  Sir  Knight  abandon  Dwelling" 

"That  is  from  Hudibras"  Burlingame  observed,  "but  I  forget  what  Butler 
rhymed  with't.  Dwelling,  dwelling— ah,  'tis  no  chore  at  all: 

Then  did  Sir  Knight  abandon  Dwelling, 
Which  scarce  repay7 d  the  Work  of  Selling. 

"Too  close,"  said  Ebenezer.  "Give  us  a  Hudibrastic." 
"Your  Hudibrastics  will  break  my  jaw!  Howbeit,  if  'tis  a  jangle  you  wish, 
I  shall  shudder  the  ears  off  you: 

Then  did  Sir  Knight  abandon  Dwelling, 
Riding  like  a  demon'd  Hellion. 

Are  you  jarred?" 

"It  fills  the  gap,"  Ebenezer  admitted.  "But  the  difference  'twixt  poet 
and  coxcomb  is  precisely  that  the  latter  stops  gaps  like  a  ship  fitter  caulking 
seams,  merely  to  keep  the  boat  afloat,  while  the  former  doth  his  work  as 
doth  a  man  with  a  maid:  he  fills  the  gap,  but  with  vigor,  finesse,  and  care; 
there's  beauty  and  delight  as  well  as  utility  in  his  plugging." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  4°3  ] 

"  'Sheart,  my  friend,"  Burlingame  said  respectfully,  "you  go  on  like  the 
gods  themselves!  How  would  a  Laureate  poet  fill  this  gap,  prithee,  that 
yawns  like  the  pit  of  Hell?" 

Ebenezer  replied,  "  'Twas  filled  by  Sam  Butler  in  this  wise-observe  the 
art,  now,  the  collision: 

Then  did  Sir  Knight  abandon  Dwelling, 
And  out  he  rode  a  Colonelling." 

"Ah,  stay!"  cried  Burlingame.  "This  is  too  much!  A  Co-lo-nelling!  Tis 
a  fabrication— aye,  a  Chimaera!  Co-lo-nelling,  is't!  Why  did  not  Mister 
Butler,  if  he  was  so  enamored  of  his  unnatural  word^  call  it  feernelling,  as't 
should  be  called,  and  rhyme  from  there?" 

"Why  not  indeed?  What  would  you  rhyme  with  kernelling,  Henry?" 

"  Tis  naught  of  a  chore  to  me,"  Burlingame  scoffed.  "To  rhyme  with 
kernelling Well,  kernelling "  He  hesitated. 

"You  see,"  smiled  Ebenezer.  "In  his  divine  inspiration  the  poet  chose  a 
rhyme  for  dwelling  that  is  at  once  a  rhyme  and  a  Hudibrastic,  and  so 
avoided  your  quandary.  Yield,  now;  there  is  no  rhyme  for  kernelling!9 

"I  yield,"  Burlingame  said  with  apparent  humility.  "I  can  get  me  the 
first  line— Then  went  Sir  Knight  a  kernelling— but  can't  rhyme  the  infernal 
thing." 

The  two  travelers  exchanged  sudden  glances. 

"Out  upon't,"  Ebenezer  muttered,  "the  lesson's  done." 

But  Burlingame  was  delighted  to  see  his  unintentional  coup  de  maitre; 
he  went  on  to  declaim  theatrically  from  his  horse: 

"Then  went  Sir  Knight  a  kernelling, 
Pursuing  all  infernal  Things, 
Inflam'd  by  Hopes  eternal  Springs 
Through  Winterings  and  Vernallings 
(As  testify  his  Journallings 
And  similar  Diurnallings, 
Not  mentioning  Nocturnallings)    .  ,  ." 

"Desist!"  Ebenezer  commanded.  "Spin  me  no  more  of  this  doggerel, 
Henry,  lest  I  heave  my  breakfast  upon  the  highway!" 

"Forgive  me,"  Burlingame  laughed.  "I  was  inspired." 

"You  were  baiting  me/'  the  Laureate  said  indignantly.  "Be  not  puffed 
up  o'er  such  trifling  achievement,  the  like  of  which  we  poets  must  better 
fifty  times  a  page!  You  have  a  certain  knack  for  rhyming,  clear  enough;  but 


[404]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

think  not  you  can  rhyme  any  word  in  Mother  English,  for  a  poet  will  name 
you  words  that  have  not  their  like  in  the  language/' 

"Ha!  Oh!  Ha!"  Burlingame  cried  with  sudden  glee.  "I  have  hatched 
more!  I'God,  they  crowd  my  fancy  like  the  shoats  to  Portia's  nipples! 

Now  lend  me,  Muse,  supernal  Wings 
To  sing  Sir  Knights  Hiberndlings, 
His  Doublings  and  his  Terndlings, 
His  Forwardings  and  Sterrutllings; 
To  sing  of  his  Hesternallings, 
And  also  Hodiernallings, 
Internal  and  external  Things, 
Both  brief  and  diuturnd  Things, 
And  even  sempiternd  Things, 
His  dark  and  his  lucernd  Things, 
Maternd  and  Paterndlings, 
Sorord  and  Fraternd  Things, 
His  blue  and  red  Pimpernellings, 
And  sundry  paraphernd  Things " 

"You  do  not  love  me!"  Ebenezer  said  angrily.  "I'll  hear  no  more!" 

"Nay,  I  beg  you"— Burlingame  laughed— "fob  me  not  off  so!" 

"Sinful  pridel"  the  poet  chided,  when  he  had  recovered  something  of  his 
composure. 

"  'Twas  but  in  jest,  Eben;  if  it  vexed  you,  I  am  contrite.  Tis  you  who 
are  the  teacher  now,  not  I,  and  you  may  take  what  steps  you  will.  In  truth 
you've  taught  me  more  than  erst  I  knew." 

"  'Tis  clear  your  talent  wants  snaffle  and  curb  in  lieu  of  the  crop,"  said 
Ebenezer. 

"Will  you  go  on,  then?" 

Ebenezer  considered  for  a  moment  and  then  agreed.  "So  be't,  but  no 
more  teasing.  I  shall  administer  to  you  the  severest  test  of  the  rhymer's  art: 
the  slipperiest  crag  on  the  rocky  face  of  Parnassus!" 

"Administer  at  will,"  said  Burlingame;  "if  'tis  a  point  of  rhyme  I  swear 
there's  none  can  best  me,  for  I  have  learnt  old  Mother  English  to  her  very 
privates.  But  say,  let's  make  a  sport  oft,  would  you  mind?  Else  'twere  much 
the  same  to  win  or  lose." 

"I've  naught  to  wager,"  Ebenezer  said,  "nor  should  you  wager  if  I  had, 
for  the  word  I  mean  to  speak  hath  not  its  like."  Then  he  had  a  happier 
thought:  "Stay,  how  far  yet  is  that  ferry  you  spoke  of?" 

"Some  five  or  six  miles  hence,  I'd  guess." 

"Then  let  us  wager  the  ride  of  our  mounts,  if  you've  a  mind  to.  If  you 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  405  ] 

cannot  rhyme  the  line  I  give  you,  you  must  walk  from  here  to  Cambridge 
ferry;  if  you  can,  'tis  I  shall  walk.  Done?" 

"Well  wagered/'  Burlingame  said  merrily,  "and  I'll  add  more:  who  loses 
must  not  merely  walk,  but  walk  behind  old  Roan  there,  that  ever  gets  the 
bumbreezes  near  midmoming.  'Twill  add  a  spice  to  the  winner's  victory!" 

"Done/'  agreed  the  poet.  "I  had  in  sooth  observed  the  mare  was 
flatulent." 

Burlingame  nodded.  "'Tis  her  advanced  years,  I  suppose:  a  certain 
windiness  of  the  arse  doth  e'er  afflict  an  elder  lady.  E'en  my  Portia,  who  is 
no  shoat,  hath  cooled  me  on  occasion." 

"Enough,"  declared  Ebenezer,  "let  us  on  with  the  trial.  I  shall  muse  you 
a  line,  and  you  must  rhyme  it.  Not  a  Hudibrastic,  mind,  but  a  perfect 
match." 

"Is't  mosquito?"  asked  Burlingame.  "I'll  say  incognito.97 

"Nay,"  the  Laureate  smiled,  "nor  is  it  literature'9 

"Twould  be  bitter-that's-sure,"  his  tutor  laughed. 

"Nor  misbehavior!9 

"Thank  the  Savior!" 

"Nor  importunacy" 

"That  were  lunacy!" 

"Nor  tiddlywinks." 

"'Twould  gain  thee  little,  methiuks!" 

"Nor  galligaskin." 
•  "Was  I  askin'?" 

"Nor  charlatan:9 

"Thin  as  tarlatan!" 

"Nor  Saracen" 

"'Twould  be  embarrassin'!" 

"Nor  even  autoschediastic,99 

"Then  it  ought  to  be  fantastic!" 

"Nor  catoptromancy" 

"That's  not  so  fancy!" 

"Nor  procnistean.99 

"I  should  bust  thee  one!" 

"Nor  is  it  Piccadilly  bombast99 

"You'd  be  sick-o'-filly-bum-blastl" 

"Nor  Grandma's  visit." 

"Then,  man,  what  is  it?" 

"  Tis  month,99  Ebenezer  said. 


[AO6]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Month?"  cried  Burlingame. 

"Month"  the  Laureate  repeated.  "Rhyme  me  a  word  with  month. 
August  is  the  Year's  eighth  Month" 

"Month!"  Burlingame  said  again.  "Tis  but  a  single  syllable!" 

"Many,  then,  'twill  be  easy/'  Ebenezer  smiled.  "August  is  the  Year's 
eighth  Month" 

"August  is  the  Year's  eighth  Month"  Burlingame  began  to  show  some 
alarm  as  he  searched  his  store  of  language. 

"No  lisping,  now,"  Ebenezer  warned.  "Don't  say  Whoe'er  denieth  it  ith 
a  Dunth,  or  Athent  thee  not,  then  count  it  oneth.  That  will  not  do." 

Burlingame  sighed.  "And  no  Hudibrastics,  you  say?" 

"Nay,"  Ebenezer  confirmed.  "You  mayn't  say  August  is  the  Year's  eighth 
Month,  And  not  the  tenth  or  milli-onth.  Ben  Oliver  tried  that  once  in 
Locket's  and  was  disqualified  on  the  instant.  I  want  a  clear  and  natural 
rhyme." 

"Is  there  aught  in  the  language?"  Burlingame  cried. 

"Nay,"  the  poet  declared,  "as  I  warned  you  ere  you  took  the  wager." 

Burlingame  searched  his  memory  so  thoroughly  that  perspiration  beaded 
his  forehead,  but  after  twenty  minutes  he  was  obliged  to  yield. 

"I  surrender,  Eben;  you  have  me  pat."  Most  reluctantly,  under  his 
prot6g6's  triumphant  smile,  he  dismounted,  and  taking  his  place  behind 
the  aged  roan,  prepared  to  meet  the  odious  consequences  of  his  gamble. 

"In  the  future,  Henry,"  Ebenezer  boldly  advised,  "hold  not  so  grand  an 
estimate  of  your  talents,  and  do  not  engage  with  poets  in  their  own  preserve. 
If  I  may  speak  with  candor,  the  gift  of  language  is  vouchsafed  to  but  a  few, 
and  though  'tis  no  great  shame  not  to  have't,  'twere  folly  to  pretend  to't 
when  you  have  it  not." 

And  having  delivered  himself  of  this  unusual  rebuke,  Ebenezer  began 
to  hum  a  tune  for  very  satisfaction.  At  the  first  slight  elevation  in  the  terrain 
over  which  they  traveled,  the  roan  mare,  already  wearied,  broke  wind  noisily 
from  the  effort  of  climbing.  Burlingame  growled  a  mighty  oath  and  cried 
out  in  disgust,  "What  sort  of  poor  vocabulary  is't,  that  possesses  nary  noun 
or  verb  to  match  the  onth  in  August  is  the  Year's  eighth  Month?" 

"Do  not  rail  against  the  language/'  Ebenezer  began,  "  'tis  really  a  most 
admirable  tongue  .  .  ." 

He  halted,  as  did  Burlingame  and  the  roan.  The  two  men  regarded  each 
other  warily. 

"No  matter,"  Ebenezer  ventured.  "The  trial  was  done." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [4°?] 

"Ah  nay,  Sir  Laureate!"  Burlingame  laughed.  "Mine  is  done,  but  thine 
is  but  begun!  Down  with  you,  now!" 

"But  onth"  Ebenezer  protested— nevertheless  dismounting.  "Tis  not 
an  English  word,  is't?  What  doth  it  signify?" 

"Tut,"  said  Burlingame,  remounting  his  young  gelding,  "we  set  no  such 
criterion  as  significance,  that  I  recall.  To  match  the  onth  .  .  /  is  what  I 
said:  onth  is  the  object  of  match;  objects  of  verbs  are  substantives;  substan- 
tives are  words.  Get  thee  behind  yon  roan!" 

Ebenezer  sighed,  Burlingame  laughed  aloud,  the  roan  mare  once  again 
broke  wind,  and  on  went  the  travelers  toward  Cambridge,  Burlingame 
singing  lustily: 

"How  wondrous  a  Vocabulary 
Is't,  that  possesseth  nary 
Noun  nor  Verb  the  Rhyme  for  which'11 
Stump  the  Son  of  Captain  Mitchell!" 


27:    THE  LAUREATE  ASSERTS  THAT  JUSTICE  IS  BLIND, 
AND  ARMED  WITH  THIS  PRINCIPLE,  SETTLES  A 
LITIGATION 


UPON  THEIR  ARRIVAL  AT  THE  CHOPTANK  RIVER  FERRY,  BURLINGAME  DE- 

clared  Ebenezer's  sentence  served;  he  paid  out  a  shilling  apiece  for  their 
fares  and  another  shilling  for  the  two  horses',  and  the  travelers  took  their 
places  in  the  sailing  scow  for  the  two-mile  run  to  Cambridge. 

Burlingame  pointed  across  the  channel  to  a  few  scattered  buildings, 
scarcely  visible  on  the  farther  shore.  "Yonder  stands  the  seat  of  Dorset 
County.  When  last  your  father  saw  it,  'twas  naught  but  a  planter's  landing." 

Weary  from  his  ordeal,  Ebenezer  made  no  effort  to  conceal  his  disap- 
pointment. "I  knew  'twould  be  no  English  Cambridge,  but  I'll  own  I  had 
not  thought  'twas  rude  as  that.  What  is  there  in't  to  sing  in  epical  verse?" 

"Who  knows  what  manner  of  sloven  huts  the  real  Troy  was  composed  of, 
or  cares  to  know?"  his  friend  replied.  "'Tis  the  genius  of  the  poet  to 
transcend  his  material;  and  it  wants  small  eloquence  to  argue  that  the 
meaner  the  subject,  the  greater  must  be  the  transcension,,  to  effect  which 
merits  for  the  poet  an  honor  commensurate  with  the  difficulty  of  his 
achievement." 


[  408  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

To  this  the  Laureate  clucked  his  tongue  and  said,  "Methinks  the  Jesuit 
hath  the  better  of  you,  after  all:  you  made  a  prisoner  of  his  body,  and  he  a 
convert  of  your  Reason." 

Burlingame  bristled  at  the  jibe,  for  it  was  not  the  first  Ebenezer  had 
directed  at  him  that  day.  "It  ill  becomes  you  to  defend  the  priest,"  he 
scolded  in  a  low  voice,  so  that  the  ferryman  could  not  hear.  "  Tis  not  the 
Pope's  cause  we  serve,  but  Baltimore's:  the  cause  of  Justice." 

'True  enough,"  the  poet  agreed,  and  added  sagely:  "Yet  who's  to  say 
which  cause  is  Justice's?  Justice  is  blind." 

"But  men  are  not;  and  as  for  Justice,  her  blindness  is  the  blindness  of 
disinterest,  not  of  innocence." 

"That  I  deny,"  Ebenezer  said  blithely. 

"Thou'rt  grown  entirely  captious!" 

"You  are  near  forty,  and  I  but  twenty-eight,"  the  Laureate  declared,  "and 
in  experience  thou'rt  at  least  three  times  my  age;  but  despite  my  innocence 
— nay,  just  because  of  t— I  deem  myself  no  less  an  authority  than  you  on 
matters  of  Justice,  Truth,  and  Beauty." 

"Outrageous!"  cried  his  friend.  "Why  is't  men  pick  the  oldest  and  most 
knowledgeable  of  their  number  to  judge  them,  if  not  that  worldliness  is  the 
first  ingredient  of  Justice?" 

But  Ebenezer  stuck  to  his  guns.  "  Tis  but  a  vulgar  error,  like  many  an- 
other." 

Burlingame  showed  more  irritation  by  the  minute.  "What  is  the  differ- 
ence 'twixt  innocence  and  ignorance,  pray,  save  that  the  one  is  Latin  and 
the  other  Greek?  In  substance  they  are  the  same:  innocence  is  ignorance." 

"By  which  you  mean,"  Ebenezer  retorted  at  once,  "that  innocence  of 
the  world  is  ignorance  oft;  no  man  can  quarrel  with  that.  Yet  the  surest 
thing  about  Justice,  Truth,  and  Beauty  is  that  they  live  not  in  the  world, 
but  as  transcendent  entities,  noumenal  and  pure.  Tis  everywhere  remarked 
how  children  oft  perceive  the  truth  at  once,,  where  their  elders  have  been 
led  astray  by  sophistication.  What  doth  this  evidence,  if  not  that  innocence 
hath  eyes  to  see  what  .experience  cannot?" 

"Fogh!"  scoffed  Burlingame.  "That  is  mere  Cambridge  claptrap,  such  as 
dear  old  Henry  More  did  e'er  espouse.  Thank  Heav'n  such  babes  are  help- 
less in  society—think  how  'twould  be  to  have  one  for  your  judge!" 

"Haply  Justice  would  live  up  to  her  motto  for  the  first  time  ever,"  Ebene- 
zer said,  but  his  earlier  glib  assurance  was  now  infused  with  petulance. 

"That  she  would!"  Henry  laughed.  "She  could  be  pictured  holding  dice 
in  lieu  of  scales,  for  where  blind  Innocence  is  judge,  the  jury  is  blind 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [409] 

Chance!  I  cannot  decide/7  he  added,  "whether  you  maintain  your  inno- 
cence because  you  hold  such  notions  as  this,  or  hold  the  notions  to  justify 
your  innocence/' 

Ebenezer  looked  away  and  frowned  as  if  at  the  approaching  wharf,  where 
considerable  activity  seemed  to  be  in  progress.  "Methinks  'twere  fitter  to 
ask  that  of  yourself,  Henry:  a  man  can  cast  away  his  innocence  when  he 
list,  but  not  his  knowledge/' 

On  this  ungenerous  note  the  argument  ended,  for  the  ferry  had  reached 
its  destination.  The  travelers,  mutually  disgruntled^  stepped  up  to  the 
wharf,  which  was  built  at  the  juncture  of  Choptank  River  and  a  large  creek, 
and  with  some  difficulty—for  the  tide  was  out—led  their  horses  up  a  steep 
gangplank  after  them. 

Unprepossessing  as  it  had  been  from  afar,  the  town  of  Cambridge  was 
even  less  impressive  at  close  range.  There  was,  in  fact,  no  town  at  all:  a  small 
log  structure  visible  farther  inland  Burlingame  identified  as  the  Dorchester 
County  Courthouse,  which  had  been  built  only  seven  years  before.  Nearer 
the  river  was  a  kind  of  inn  or  ordinary  of  even  more  recent  construction, 
and  at  the  foot  of  the  wharf  itself  was  what  appeared  to  be  a  relatively 
large  warehouse  and  general  merchandise  store  combined — a  building 
which  outdated  both  town  and  county  as  such,  and  which  doubtless  had 
been  known  to  Ebenezer's  father  as  early  as  1665.  Other  than  these  no 
buildings  could  be  seen,  and  there  were,  apparently,  no  private  houses  at 
all. 

Yet  at  least  a  score  of  people  were  strolling  on  the  wharf  and  about  the 
warehouse;  the  sounds  of  general  carouse  rang  down  the  roadway  from  the 
tavern;  and  in  addition  to  the  numerous  small  craft  moored  here  and  there 
along  the  shore,  two  larger,  ocean-going  vessels — a  bark  and  a  full-rigged 
ship— lay  out  in  the  Choptank  channel.  The  activity,  so  disproportionate 
to  the  size  and  aspect  of  the  town,  Ebenezer  learned  was  owing  generally 
to  its  role  as  seat  of  the  county  and*  the  convenience  of  its  wharf  and  ware- 
house to  the  surrounding  plantations,  and  specifically  to  the  fall  term  of 
the  court,  currently  in  session,  which  provided  a  rare  diversion  for  all  and 
sundry. 

The  roan  mare  and  the  gelding  they  tethered  to  a  sapling  near  the  creek, 
and  after  a  light  dinner  at  the  ordinary  the  travelers  parted  company,  rather 
to  the  Laureate's  relief.  Burlingame  remained  at  the  inn  with  the  object  of 
hiring  lodgings  for  the  night,  inquiring  the  whereabouts  of  William  Smith, 
and  refreshing  his  thirst;  and  Ebenezer,  left  to  himself,  strolled  idly  up  the 
road  toward  the  courthouse,  preoccupied  with  his  thoughts.  Since  the  day 


[  410  I  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

was  warm,  the  courthouse  small,  and  litigation  such  a  popular  entertainment 
among  the  colonials,  the  court  was  sitting  out  of  doors,  in  a  little  valley  just 
adjacent  to  the  building,  in  order  that  the  greatest  number  of  spectators 
might  observe  the  proceedings.  Ebenezer  found  nearly  a  hundred  of  the 
audience  present  already,  though  the  court  had  not  yet  reconvened;  they 
were  engaged  in  eating,  drinking  heartily,  calling  and  waving  to  one  an- 
other across  the  natural  amphitheater  formed  by  the  valley,  wrestling  play- 
fully on  the  grass,  singing  rowdy  songs,  and  otherwise  amusing  themselves 
in  a  manner  which  the  poet  deemed  scarcely  befitting  the  dignity  of  a 
courtroom.  Notes  for  tobacco  were  everywhere  being  exchanged,  and 
Ebenezer  soon  realized  that  virtually  all  the  men  were  making  wagers  on 
the  outcome  of  the  trials.  The  fact  astonished  him  and  even  stirred  vague 
forebodings  in  his  mind,  but  he  took  a  seat  along  the  top  of  the  amphi- 
theater nevertheless  to  witness  the  session;  his  interest  was  aroused  by  his 
recent  debate  with  Burlingame,  for  one  thing,  and  he  hoped  as  well  to 
spawn  couplets  on  the  majesty  of  Maryland's  law,  as  had  been  suggested 
by 

"'Sdeath!"  he  thought,  and  winced  and  sighed:  he  could  not  manage 
to  remember  that  it  was  Burlingame,  not  Charles  Calvert,  who  had  issued 
his  commission;  it  was  a  thought  too  great  and  painful  in  its  implications 
to  hold  fast  in  his  awareness. 

After  some  minutes  the  crier  appeared  from  the  courthouse  door  and 
bawled  "Oyez!  Oyez!  Oyez!"  but  advanced  no  farther  than  the  first  hedge- 
row before  a  rain  of  cheerfully-flung  twigs  and  pebbles  drove  him  back. 
Then  entered  the  judge,  sans  wig  and  robe  of  office,  whom  Ebenezer 
recognized  only  because,  after  pausing  to  chat  with  several  of  the  audience 
and  nod  his  head  at  their  exchanges  of  tobacco-notes,  he  took  his  place 
upon  the  open-air  bench.  Next  came  the  jury  (Ebenezer  approved,  uncer- 
tainly, their  apparent  practice  of  wagering  only  among  themselves)  and 
finally  the  attorneys  for  prosecution  and  defense,  sharing  a  single  tall  flagon 
with  the  judge.  The  only  principals  not  present  were  the  plaintiff  and  the 
defendant,  and  as  Ebenezer  scanned  the  crowd,  conjecturing  as  to  their 
identities,  his  eye  fell  on  Susan  Warren  herself,  sitting  near  the  front  row 
with  an  elderly  man  whom  the  poet  had  never  seen  before!  She  had,  it 
appeared,  cleaned  herself  up  to  some  extent,  but  where  before  her  face  had 
been  dirty  and  her  brown  hair  matted,  now  she  was  rouged  and  powdered 
to  excess,  and  her  hair  was  done  up  in  the  manner  of  a  tart.  She  had  ex- 
changed her  tattered  Scotch  cloth  for  sleazy  satinesco,  gaudily  printed  and 
open  at  the  bosom,  and  her  manner  was  in  keeping  with  her  dress:  her 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

laugh  was  loud  and  easily  provoked;  her  eyes  roved  appraisingly  from  one 
man  to  another  the  whole  while  she  talked  to  her  escort;  and  she  empha- 
sized her  statements  with  a  hand  laid  lightly  now  on  her  partner's  arm, 
now  on  his  shoulder,  now  on  his  knee. 

Ebenezer  watched  her  for  some  time  with  feelings  as  various  as  they 
were  strong:  his  professions  to  Burlingame  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding, 
he  was  piqued  as  well  as  grateful  that  she'd  jilted  him  in  Captain  Mitchell's 
barn;  he  yearned  to  know  what  had  changed  her  mind,  whether  she  had 
rejoined  her  father  (and  if  so,  why  she  was  persisting  in  this  harlotry),  and — 
perhaps  most  urgently— whether  she  had  news  of  Joan  Toast,  and  why  her 
story  had  not  corresponded  quite  with  Burlingame's.  Moreover,  despite  his 
disgust  at  her  brazen  appearance  and  his  concern  for  Joan  Toast,  he  felt 
unmistakable  pangs  of  jealousy  at  the  sight  of  Susan's  escort— who,  however, 
was  virtually  ignoring  her  coquetries.  Ebenezer  debated  with  himself 
whether  to  catch  her  eye  and  attempt  to  converse  with  her— among 
other  things,  he  did  not  wholly  trust  Burlingame's  pledge  not  to  apprehend 
her— but  at  length  he  decided  not  to. 

"I  am  well  quit  of  her,"  he  declared  to  himself.  "As  my  advances  to  her 
plague  my  conscience,  may  her  desertion  of  me  plague  hers.  The  just  thing's 
to  meddle  farther  neither  in  her  flight  nor  in  her  capture,  and  there's  an 
end  on't ." 

So  engrossing  to  the  Laureate  were  these  reflections,  he  scarcely  remarked 
that  the  court  was  now  in  session  and  the  dispute  waxing  hot,  until  the 
spectators'  shouts  drew  his  attention  to  the  bar.  In  progress  was  a  change- 
of-venue  case  from  Kent  County,  and  the  testimony,  evidently,  was  going 
hard  against  the  plaintiff,  on  whose  victory  a  substantial  amount  of  Dor- 
chester's money  must  have  been  riding;  the  audience  was  shouting  down 
the  attorney  for  the  defendants,  a  married  couple  of  middle  age. 

"Be't  said  again,"  the  lawyer  was  declaiming,  "that  the  accused,  my  client 
Mr.  Bradnox— himself  a  bona  fide  justice  o'  the  peace,  was  on  the  eve  in 
question  sitting  justly  and  peaceably  at  home  with  Mistress  Mary  Bradnox 
his  wife,  when  the  plaintiff,  Mr.  Salter,  did  appear  at  his  door  with  rum 
and  playing-cards  and  did  invite  the  two  defendants  to  make  merry.  Twas 
then  near  midnight,  and  Mrs.  Bradnox  soon  after  bade  the  men  good  night 
and  retired  to  her-  chamber " 

"  Twas  the  chamber-pot  she  run  to!"  bawled  the  plaintiff  from  across 
the  yard,  and  the  audience  cried  assent.  The  defense  counsel  held  a 
whispered  colloquy  with  his  client. 

"I  hereby  amend  my  statement  on  advisement  from  Mrs.  Bradnox  that 


[412]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

she  did  in  sooth  heed  nature's  call,  but  went  straight  from  pot  to  cot,  as't 
were." 

"A  lie!"  the  plaintiff  cried  again.  He  was  a  dark,  lean  fellow  in  his  forties, 
uncommonly  tall  and  leathery,  and  had  a  small  jug  at  his  side  from  which 
he  drank.  "When  I  went  upstairs  anon  to  try  her,  I  found  her  cross-legged 
in  the  window  seat  with  a  song  upon  her  lips  and  my  good  liquor  in  her 
bowels,  a-firing  farts  at  the  waning  moon/' 

"As  the  plaintiff  Mr.  Salter  hath  confessed,"  the  defense  lawyer  went  on 
slyly,  "he  did  later  leave  the  festivities,  having  got  my  client  fuddled,  and 
did  climb  the  stairs  to  Mrs.  Bradnox's  chamber,  whereto  he  did  force  entry 
and  assault  my  client  in  dastard  fashion— the  truth  oft  is,  he  swived  Mistress 
Mary  from  arse  to  Michaelmas  and  did  thereby  cuckold  her  spouse  the 
Justice!" 

"Hear!"  cried  the  spectators. 

"Having  finished  which  evil  work,"  the  defense  continued,  "this  Salter 
did  return  to  the  parlor,  where  he  ill  employed  his  host's  beliquorment  to 
cheat  him  at  a  game  o'  lanterloo,  to  the  tune  of  several  hundred  pounds  of 
tobacco,  plying  him  the  while  with  yet  more  rum  to  hide  the  fraud.  Whenas 
my  pitiful  client  grew  so  light  with  his  load  o'  drams  that  he  tumbled  to  the 
floor,  by  which  fall  his  nose  did  bleed  much,  this  same  John  Salter  did  spit 
upon  him,  make  water  on  him,  and  otherwise  offend  the  laws  of  hospitality, 
telling  him  finally  that  he  was  not  two  hours  a  horned  cuckold—he  Salter 
having  laid  sack-a-sack,  rem  in  rem  with  Mistress  Mary  and  tried  her  with 
much  .relish  from  navel  to  counterpane.  Hearing  which,  my  client  did  on 
the  instant  go  wondrous  sober  and,  calling  this  same  Salter  blasphemer  and 
turdy  scoundrel,  did  ascend  unto  his  wife's  chamber  in  a  fearful  choler. 
Entering  therein,  he  did  commence  to  chastise  her  for  a  whore  and  scurvy 
peddletwat,  as  well  as  divers  other  epithets  of  castigation  and  admonition, 
and  anon  did  grab  her  by  the  birth  and  drag  her  thus  from  bed  to  floor  in 
an  inhumane  manner." 

"Shame!"  bawled  the  crowd,  and,  "To  the  post  with  him!"  Ebenezer  too 
was  shocked,  but  not  nearly  so  much  by  this  revelation  as  by  the  entire 
preceding  narrative  of  the  plaintiffs  behavior,  the  like  of  which,  for  sheer 
brazenness,  he  had  never  heard.  He  wondered,  in  fact,  how  it  was  that 
Salter  was  the  plaintiff  and  not  the  accused  in  the  litigation,  particularly  in 
the  light  of  the  defendant's  position  as  Justice  of  the  Peace. 
^  "In  the  course  of  which  domestic  altercation,"  the  defense  proceeded, 
"the  plaintiff  Mr.  Salter  entered,  and  intruding  himself  betwixt  the  man 
and  wife  my  clients,  did  take  the  part  of  Mistress  Mary  against  her  wedded 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

spouse,  clutching  same  about  the  neck  and  choking  him  till  the  Justice's 
eyes  did  lose  their  spark  and  stared  all  emptily  like  pissholes  in  the 
snow  .  .  ." 

"Hear!" 

"Whereupon  said  Justice  Bradnox  did  leave  off  his  grip  upon  Mistress 
Mary's  privates  and  confronted  Salter  with  the  latter's  peccadilloes,  con- 
tending that,  by  virtue  of  his  having  swived  Mary  ruthlessly  from  pot  to 
pallet,  said  Salter  did  forfeit  any  and  all  claim  to  the  Justice's  esteem  and 
was  in  fact  no  proper  guest  but  a  gigolo  and  shitabed  hypocrite.  To  which 
description  the  plaintiff  did  reply  by  blacking  both  the  Justice's  eyes  and 
raising  a  duck-egg  knot  upon  his  pate,  declaring  the  while  that  Justice 
Bradnox  was  deficient  in  manly  virtue " 

"I  told  him  he  was  manly  as  a  steer,"  Salter  specified,  wiping  the  mouth 
of  the  wine-jug  with  his  sleeve,  "and  useful  as  a  whore  in  church.'7 

"That  was  well  said,"  remarked  a  man  sitting  next  to  Ebenezer. 

"And  he  did  farther  declare,"  the  defense  went  on,  "that  Mistress  Mary 
was  not  worth  the  trouble  to  hoist  her  coats  .  .  " 

"'Twas  like  making  love  to  Aldersgate,  I  swear,"  Salter  complained. 

'Whereto  the  Justice  did  reply  that,  should  Salter  not  close  his  leprous 
claptrap,  he  the  Justice  my  client  would  close  it  for  him,  and  shoot  him, 
knock  him  upon  the  head,  and  break  his  two  legs  into  the  bargain.  To 
which  the  plaintiff  rejoined " 

"Enough!"  cried  the  judge,  whom  Ebenezer  applauded  for  putting  an 
end  to  the  lurid  narrative.  But  then  he  added,  "Thy  drivel  will  have  us 
snoring  in  a  minute.  What's  the  charge,  for  heaven's  sake?" 

Salter  leaped  to  his  feet  at  once.  "The  charge,"  he  said,  4tis  that  this 
blackguard  Bradnox  never  paid  me  for  that  liquor— a  rundlet  in  all,  give  or 
take  a  dram — and  farther,  that  whilst  I  was  a-swiving  Mary  Bradnox  from 
sprit  to  spanker,  certain  coins  did  fall  from  out  my  breeches,  that  were  upon 
a  chair,  and  these  same  coins  the  rascals  ne'er  returned  to  me." 

"Mother  of  God!"  the  Laureate  whispered. 

"What  say  ye,,  jurymen?"  charged  the  judge.  "Is  the  defendant  guilty,  or 
will  ye  let  the  scoundrel  go?" 

The  most  Ebenezer  could  hope  for  during  the  minute  or  so  of  the  jury's 
deliberation  was  that  the  notes  being  exchanged  among  them  were  mes- 
sages and  not  tobacco-notes;  he  was  too  appalled  by  the  conduct  of  the 
court  to  expect  an  honest  judgment.  It  came,  in  fact,  as  something  of  a 
shock  to  him  when  the  foreman  of  the  jury  said,  "Your  Honor,  we  find 
the  defendant  not  guilty." 


[414]  TEE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Not  guilty!"  roared  the  judge,  and  his  protest  was  echoed  by  the  audi- 
ence. "Sheriff,  arrest  those  twelve  rascals  and  charge  'em  all  with  contempt 
o'  court!  Not  guilty!  Marry,  the  man's  soul  is  black  as  the  Ace  o'  Spades, 
and  that  of  his  short-heeled  wife  little  whiter!  Good  God,  men,  will  ye 
bring  fair  Dorset  to  wrack  and  ruin?  Nay,  I  say:  the  defendant  is  guilty  as 
charged!" 

Ebenezer  rose  indignantly  to  his  feet,  but  his  objections  were  swallowed 
up  by  the  crowd's  tumultuous  applause. 

"The  Court  here  orders  that  Tom  Bradnox  pay  o'er  to  Salter  the  full 
price  of  his  rundlet  and  deliver  a  like  amount  to  the  Court  come  sunrise 
next,  or  stand  pilloried  till  this  Court  adjourns.  Farther,  that  Mary  Bradnox 
return  to  the  plaintiff  double  the  value  of  the  coins  he  lost  while  swiving 
her  from  bosom  to  birthright,  or  else  suffer  herself  the  letter  T  to  be  burnt 
in  her  hand,  for  thievery.  Next  case!" 

The  spectators  whistled  and  guffawed,  slapped  one  another's  shoulders, 
pinched  one  another's  wives,  and  collected  or  settled  their  wagers.  Ebenezer 
remained  on  his  feet,  so  astonished  by  the  conduct  of  the  court  that  his  face 
was  white,  and  searched  for  the  most  scathing  terms  in  his  vocabulary,  for 
he  meant  to  deliver  then  and  there  a  public  rebuke  not  only  to  the  plaintiff 
and  the  judge,  who  had  been  clearly  in  collusion,  but  to  the  audience  as 
well,  for  their  undignified  behavior.  The  degree xrf  his  indignation  (particu- 
larly after  the  argument  with  Burlingame)  and  the  loftiness  of  his  position 
removed  what  qualms  he  might  have  had  about  taking  such  a  bold  step, 
but  before  he  could  compose  his  reprimand  the  next  litigants  had  taken 
the  stand,  and  his  attention  was  distracted  by  the  fact  that  one  of  them— 
apparently  the  defendant— was  Susan  Warren's  escort,  with  whom  the 
judge  appeared  to  be  on  familiar  terms. 

"What  is't  ye  want  here,  Ben  Spurdance?"  asked  the  judge,  and  Ebene- 
zer gave  a  start— the  name  he  seemed  to  have  heard  before,  doubtless  from 
Susan,  but  he  could  not  recall  in  what  connection. 

"Ye'd  better  ask  fcfm,"  Spurdance  grumbled,  pointing  to  a  hale  old  man 
in  the  plaintiffs  seat. 

"Who  might  you  be?"  the  judge  demanded  of  him. 

The  old  man  answered,  "William  Smith,  your  Honor."  Ebenezer  started 
once  again:  was  this  the  William  Smith  whom  Burlingame  sought? 

"What  is  your  lying  complaint  against  old  Ben  Spurdance?"  asked  the 
fudge,  and  at  this  second  mention  of  the  name  Ebenezer  remembered 
where  he'd  heard  it  before:  Captain  Mitchell,  as  they  left,  had  instructed 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

his  "son"  to  search  for  Susan  Warren  at  the  home  of  one  Ben  Spurdance^ 
which  he  had  called  "a  den  of  thieves  and  whores." 

But  he  was  due  for  yet  a  further  surprise,  for  in  answer  to  the  Court's 
question  Smith  replied  that  upon  his  arrival  in  the  Province  some  four  years 
ago  he  had  of  necessity  indentured  himself  to  the  defendant,  having  spent 
all  his  money  en  route  for  medicines  to  aid  his  ailing  daughter,  and  that  the 
term  of  his  indenture  had  just  recently  expired. 

"'Dslife!"  the  Laureate  marveled.  "Tis  not  our  man  at  all,  but  Susan 
"  Warren's  poor  sainted  father  that  she  told  me  of!"  And  he  wondered  angrily 
why  Susan  had  been  consorting  with  the  defendant.  William  Smith,  in  the 
meantime,  proceeded  to  articulate  his  grievance:  he  had,  he  declared, 
served  Spurdance  faithfully  for  the  four  years  of  his  indenture  in  the  position 
of  cooper  and  smith,  but  upon  the  expiration  of  his  service  Spurdance  had 
reneged  on  the  terms  of  their  agreement.  Specifically,  Spurdance  had  given 
over  to  him  only  an  acre  and  a  half  of  land— and  poor  land  at  that,  full  of 
stones  and  gullies— instead  of  the  twenty  called  for  by  the  indenture,  and 
had  told  him  he  could  go  hang  for  all  the  more  he'd  get. 

"Poor  wretch!"  Ebenezer  commiserated  to  himself.  "E'en  yet  his  Chris- 
tian nature  is  exploited!"  He  was  all  the  more  ready  now  to  deliver  his 
harangue,  but  he  thought  it  best  to  wait  until  he  had  the  whole  sorry  tale 
of  Smith's  misfortunes. 

The  defendant  then  testified  that  while  the  plaintiffs  speech  was  sub- 
stantially correct,  he  Spurdance  had  not  told  Smith  to  go  hang  for  all  the 
rest  he'd  get. 

"I  told  the  old  goat  to  thrust  his  acres  up  his  arse  and  leave  me  in  peace," 
he  declared. 

"I'God,  he  e'en  admits  his  guilt!"  thought  Ebenezer. 

The  judge  frowned  uncordially  at  the  plaintiff.  "Are  ye  trying  to  lie  to 
the  Court,  sir?" 

"Haply  'twas  as  he  says,"  admitted  Smith,  "albeit  my  memory  is  he  said 
'Go  hang,  for  all  the  more  ye'll  get!' " 

"Well,  which  was't?"  the  judge  demanded. 

" 'Twas  Thrust  it"  Spurdance  insisted. 

" Twas  Go  hang"  Smith  maintained. 

"Thrust  it!"  shouted  Spurdance. 

"Go  hang!"  cried  Smith. 

"Thrust  it,"  the  judge  ordered,  rapping  for  silence.  "Your  friend  here 
hath  a  slippery  lawyer,  Ben,"  he  said  to  the  defendant.  "Where's  yours?" 

Spurdance  sniffed  in  the  direction  of  the  prosecuting  attorney,  a  plump 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

little  man  in  a  black  suit  such  as  Quakers  often  wore.  "I  need  no  liars 
like  Richard  Sowter  to  defend  me." 

"Call  your  first  witness,  then,  and  let's  get  on  with't." 

No  one  except  Ebenezer  seemed  to  see  anything  unorthodox  about  hear- 
ing the  defense  before  the  prosecution,  and  when  he  saw  Susan  Warren 
take  the  stand  in  Spurdance's  behalf,  his  wonder  was  replaced  by  sheer  aston- 
ishment. In  such  a  court  as  this,  he  began  to  think,  nothing  was  disallowed 
but  Justice;  only  an  honest  verdict  would  be  surprising. 

Susan's  testimony,  however,  surpassed  for  incredibility  anything  else  he* 
had  heard  said  that  afternoon.  She  had  fled  to  Maryland,  she  declared, 
under  the  protection  of  one  kindly  Captain  Mitchell  of  Calvert  County, 
in  order  to  escape  the  incestuous  demands  of  a  father  who  lusted  after 
her  like  a  billy-goat!  "He  did  then  privily  pursue  me  aboard  the  ship  it- 
self," she  went  on,  "and  squandered  all  his  money  to  bribe  Captain  Mitch- 
ell. Twas  his  object  to  make  the  Captain  play  the  pander  and  deliver 
me  into  his  evil  hands,  that  he  might  ravish  me  from  foYsle  to  poop  deck!" 

The  spectators,  though  they  had  greeted  Susan's  accession  to  the  stand 
with  whistles  and  lewd  remarks,  were  now  in  obvious  sympathy  with  her 
plight;  they  murmured  their  approval  of  the  testimony  that  her  father's 
efforts  to  corrupt  her  guardian  had  been  in  vain,  and  that  as  a  consequence 
he  had  been  obliged  to  indenture  himself  to  Spurdance. 

"Good  Ben  here  took  him  only  as  a  favor  to  me,"  she  declared,  "and 
'twas  an  ill  bargain  I  bade  him  strike,  for  my  father  scorned  his  end  oft. 
He  proved  an  idler  and  a  rabble  rouser,  e'en  as  I'd  feared;  Mr.  Spurdance 
gave  him  the  acre  and  a  half  out  of  pure  Christian  charity,  for  he  owed 
him  not  a  ship  fitter's  fart.  He  is  my  father,  worse  luck  for  me,  but  'twould 
give  me  joy  to  see  the  rascal  put  to  the  post,  I  swear,  and  have  the  nastiness 
flogged  from  his  wretched  bones!" 

The  judge  commended  Susan  warmly  and  with  no  further  ado  dismissed 
the  untrustworthy  jury  and  declared  himself  ready  to  find  the  plaintiff  guilty 
of  lying  and  idleness;  but  before  he  could  render  an  official  verdict,  Eben- 
ezer, who  had  sprung  to  his  feet  and  trembled  with  rage  through  the  latter 
part  of  Susan's  testimony,  now  raised  himself  to  h'is  full  height  on  the 
grassy  bank  and  cried,  "Stopl  I  demand  that  this  outrageous  proceeding 
be  stopped!" 

Susan  gasped  and  turned  away;  the  crowd  hooted  and  threw  twigs,  but 
the  judge  brayed  louder  and  banged  his  gavel. 

"Order!  Order,  damn  ye!  Now  who  in  the  name  of  Antichrist  are  you, 
and  why  are  ye  obstructing  the  justice  of  this  court?" 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

As  he  turned  to  dodge  a  twig,  Ebenezer  saw  Henry  Burlingame  hurrying 
toward  him  around  the  top  edge  of  the  amphitheater  and  signaling  urgently 
for  him  to  hold  his  peace.  But  the  Laureate's  indignation  was  not  so  lightly 
held  in  check;  in  fact,  the  pertinence  of  the  present  situation  to  what 
he  and  Burlingame  had  been  arguing  not  long  before  made  Ebenezer 
even  more  eager  to  speak  out  when  he  saw  his  former  tutor  among  the 
audience. 

"I  am  Ebenezer  Cooke,,  Your  Honor,  Poet  and  Laureate  of  this  entire 
province  by  grace  of  Charles,  Lord  Baltimore,  and  I  strenuously  object  to 
the  verdict  just  proposed,  as  being  a  travesty  of  Justice  and  a  smirch  on 
the  fair  escutcheon  of  Maryland  law!" 

"Hear!"  cried  some  of  the  audience,  but  others  shouted  "Turn  the  Papist 
out!"  As  soon  as  the  declaration  was  made,  Ebenezer  saw  Burlingame  halt 
in  full  career,  clap  a  hand  to  his  brow,  and  then  with  a  shrug  sit  down 
where  he  happened  to  have  stopped. 

"Oh  la,"  scoffed  the  judge,  "'tweren't  that  bad."  He  winked  broadly  at 
the  assemblage.  "  'Twas  the  best  verdict  old  Ben  Spurdance  could  afford." 

Burlingame's  alarm  had  taken  its  toll  on  the  Laureate's  self-confidence, 
but  it  was  too  late  now  for  him  to  retreat;  uncertainty  put  new  wrath  into 
his  voice. 

"You  know  not  whom  you  twit,  sir!  Poltroons  greater  and  blacker  than 
you  have  felt  the  sting  of  Hudibrastic  and  been  brought  low!  Now  will 
you  render  Justice  to  yon  poor  wretch  the  plaintiff,  whose  inequitable 
case  cries  out  to  Heav'n  for  remedy,  and  cause  the  defendant  and  that 
perfidious  slattern  of  a  witness  to  suffer  for  their  calumnies?  Or  will  you 
bring  upon  yourself  the  Laureate's  wrath,  and  with  it  the  wrath  of  an  out- 
raged populace?" 

Spurdance,  meanwhile,  had  turned  pale,  and  as  the  crowd  murmured 
to  one  another,  he  went  to  the  bench  to  whisper  in  the  judge's  ear  during 
this  last  challenge. 

"I  care  not  a  tinker's  turd  who  he  is!"  the  judge  swore  to  Spurdance. 
"This  is  my  court,  and  I  mean  to  run  it  honestly:  nobody  gets  a  verdict 
he  hath  not  paid  for!" 

"So  be't!"  the  poet  shouted  over  the  laughter  of  the  crowd.  "If  Justice 
in  this  province  belongs  for  the  nonce  to  the  man  that  buys  her,  then  in 
this  instance  I  shall  pay  the  harlot's  fee."  He  glared  meaningfully  at  Susan. 
"Whate'er  this  evil  Spurdance  bribed  you  I  shall  raise  by  half,  for  the  privi- 
lege of  rendering  both  verdict  and  sentence." 

"Two  hundred  pounds  o'  sot-weed,"  said  the  judge. 


[  418  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Three  hundred,  then/'  the  Laureate  replied. 

"I  object!"  cried  Spurdance,  greatly  alarmed. 

"And  I!"  chimed  Susan,  whose  look  of  terror  brought  a  proud  smile 
to  the  poet's  lips.  William  Smith  stood  up  as  if  to  add  a  third  objection, 
but  his  little  black-suited  counsel  quickly  stopped  him  and  whispered  in  his 
ear. 

"Objections  overruled,"  snapped  the  judge.  "The  case  is  in  your  hands, 
Master  Poet.  But  bear  in  mind  'tis  not  allowed  to  take  life  or  member/' 

The  defendant  and  Susan  showed  surprise  and  consternation  over  the 
progress  of  events,  as  did  Burlingame,  who  sprang  up  at  the  judge's  ruling 
and  once  again  hurried  towards  Ebenezer.  But  he  was  still  several  hundred 
feet  away,  and  the  Laureate  proceeded  undisturbed. 

"I  wish  neither,"  he  declared,  "only  Justice.  Spurdance,  it  appears,  did 
no  bodily  injury  to  the  plaintiff;  therefore  none  shall  be  done  to  him,  Twas 
a  matter  of  land-payment,  and  I  shall  administer  Justice  of  the  nature  of 
the  crime.  What  a  devilish  thing  it  is,  for  a  wealthy  man  to  rob  a  poor! 
'Twere  only  fit,  in  such  unequal  contest,  that  after  a  time  the  two  roles 
be  reversed.  My  verdict  is  that  the  defendant  stands  guilty  as  charged,  and 
rny  sentence  is  that  the  plaintiff  be  awarded  in  damages  not  alone  the 
twenty  acres  originally  due  him,  but  all  the  property  from  which  the  grant 
was  made,  saving  only  the  acre  and  a  half  now  held  by  the  plaintiff. 
In  other  words,  the  defendant  shall  own  the  pittance  he  so  grudged  to 
give  up,  and  the  plaintiff  shall  own  the  hoard  from  which  it  came!  As  for 
Miss  Susan  Warren,  since  it  seems  by  no  means  uncommon  in  this  court 
to  sentence  persons  not  on  trial,  I  find  her  guilty  of  fraud,  calumny,  de- 
famation, lewdness,  whoredom,  and  filial  disaffection,  and  here  decree  that 
she  must  remain  in  the  custody  of  her  father  the  plaintiff  whilst  an  en- 
quiry be  made  into  the  legality  of  her  indenture  to  Captain  Mitchell. 
Farther,  that  at  the  soonest  opportunity  her  father  is  to  arrange  a  fit  match 
for  her,  that  under  the  connubial  yoke  she  might  instruct  herself  in  the 
ways  of  virtue  and  piety.  These  strictures,  penalties,  and  decrees  to  be  ex- 
ecuted within  the  fortnight  on  pain  of  increased  sentence  and  imprison- 
ment!" 

From  across  tjie  courtyard  came  a  mocking,  almost  hysterical  laugh,  and 
Burlingame,  Spurdance,  and  Susan  Warren  all  cried  out  at  once,  but  the 
judge  said,  "The  Court  so  rules,"  and  banged  the  table  with  his  gavel. 
"And  I  shall  add,  sir,  that  in  all  my  years  upon  the  bench  I  have  ne'er  wit- 
nessed such  a  foolish  generosity!" 
Ebenezer  bowed.  "I  thank  you.  Yet  'twere  better  the  Justice  of  the  sen- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  4X9  1 

tence  be  praised,  and  not  its  magnanimity.  Tis  a  light  matter  to  be  gen- 
erous with  another  man's  property/' 

The  judge  made  some  reply,  but  it  was  lost  in  the  uproar  of  the  crowd, 
who  now  lifted  Ebenezer  upon  their  shoulders  and  bore  him  off  to  the 
tavern  down  the  street. 

"  Tis  not  I  you  should  honor,  but  blind  Justice/'  the  poet  said  to  no 
one  in  particular.  "Howbeit,"  he  added,  "'tis  gratifying  to  find  myself 
at  last  among  folk  not  purblind  to  the  dignity  of  my  office.  My  esteem  for 
Cambridge  hath  been  restored  entire." 

Indeed  there  was  some  murmur  of  saintliness  among  the  more  impres- 
sionable of  the  crowd;  one  mother  held  up  her  infant  child  for  him  to  kiss, 
but  the  Laureate  modestly  waved  the  lady  away.  He  glanced  about  in  vain 
for  Burlingame,  to  savor  his  reaction  to  this  triumph. 

The  erstwhile  plaintiff  William  Smith  was  already  at  the  inn  when  they 
arrived,  and  at  sight  of  his  benefactor  he  ordered  ale  for  everyone. 

"How  can  I  thank  ye,  sir?"  he  cried,  embracing  Ebenezer.  "Thou'rt  the 
Christianest  soul  in  the  Province  o'  Maryland,  I  swear!" 

"Tut,  now,"  the  Laureate  replied.  "I  only  hope  they  will  not  cheat  you 
oft  yet." 

"  Tis  what  I  fear  as  well,  sir,"  Smith  agreed,  and  drew  a  paper  from 
his  shirt.  "My  lawyer  hath  just  now  drawn  up  this  paper,  which  if  you'll 
sign,  will  seal  your  sentence  fast  in  any  court." 

"Then  let's  have  done  with't,  and  to  the  ale,"  laughed  Ebenezer.  He 
took  quill  and  ink  from  the  barman,  signed  the  document  with  a  flourish, 
and  returned  it  to  Smith,  wishing  Burlingame^  Anna, ,  and  his  London 
friends  were  present  to  witness  this  most  glorious  hour  of  his  life. 

"Now,"  declared  Smith,  raising  his  bumper  of  ale  in  toast:  "To  Master 
Cooke,  sirs,  our  Laureate  Poet,  that  is  the  grandest  gentleman  e'er  graced 
Dorset  County!" 

"Hear!"  cried  the  others. 

"And  to  Mr.  Smith,"  -Ebenezer  rejoined  politely,  "that  hath  no  more 
than  just  reward  for  all  his  trials." 

"Hear!" 

"Here's  to  that  painted  puss  his  daughter,"  someone  shouted  from  the 
mob.  "May  Heav'n  preserve  us  from  her " 

"Nay,  rather  to  Justice,"  the  Laureate  broke  in,  embarrassed  by  the  ref- 
erence to  Susan.  "To  Justice,  Poetry,  Maryland— and,  if  you  will,  to  Maiden, 
whither  I  am  bound." 

"Aye,  to  Maiden,"  Smith  affirmed.  "And  ye  must  know,  sir,  once  I've 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"sacked  that  rascal  Spurdance  for  a  proper  overseer,  thou'rt  ever  welcome 
there  to  visit  when  ye  will  and  be  my  honored  guest  however  long  ye 
choose."  He  laughed  and  winked  his  eye.  "I'faith,  sir,  should  Lord  Calvert's 
false  commission  pay  no  wage,  I'll  hire  yourself  in  Spurdance's  stead  to 
manage  Maiden.  Ye  could  be  no  worse  a  one  than  he,  that  cheated  ye 
blind  without  your  knowing  aught  oft." 

Ebenezer  frowned  in  horror.  "Dear  sir,  I  do  not  follow  you  for  a  mo- 
ment!" 

"Ah  well,  'tis  no  matter  now,  lad."  Smith  grinned  and  took  a  fresh 
glass  from  the  barman.  "Many  a  truth  is  spoke  in  ignorance,  and  many  a 
wrong  set  right  by  chance.  To  Maiden!"  he  said  to  the  crowd,  and  clearly 
for  the  Laureate's  benefit  went  on:  "Now  'tis  mine  in  title,  I  shall  run  it  as 
Ben  Spurdance  never  durst!" 

"Hear!  Hear!  Hear!"  they  all  cried,  and  quaffed  so  deeply  of  ale  and 
enthusiasm  that  few  saw  the  guest  of  honor  swoon  dead  away  upon  the 
sawdust  floor. 


28:    IF  THE  LAUREATE  IS  ADAM,  THEN  BURLINGAME 
IS  THE  SERPENT 


WHEN  HE  RECOVERED  HIS  SENSES  EBENEZER  FOUND  HIMSELF  ON  A  BENCH 

in  one  corner  of  the  tavern;  his  feet  were  elevated  on  a  wooden  box,  and 
a  cold  wet  cloth  had  been  placed  across  his  brow.  Remembering  why  he'd 
fainted  nearly  carried  him  off  afresh;  he  closed  his  eyes  again,  and  wished 
he  could  perish  on  the  instant  where  he  lay  rather  than  face  the  derision 
of  the  crowd  and  his  own  shame  at  the  folly  of  his  loss.  When  at  length 
he  dared  to  look  about  him,  he  saw  Henry  Burlingame  sitting  alone  at  the 
nearest  table,  smoking  a  pipe  and  regarding  the  carousers  at  the  bat. 

"Henry!"  the  stricken  poet  called. 

Burlingame  spun  around  at  once.  "Not  Henry,  Eben— Tim  Mitchell  is 
my  name.  I  found  you  laid  out  on  the  floor." 

"Twas  my  first  swoon."  Ebenezer  sat  up  and  shook  his  head.  "Ah,  dear 
Christ,  Henry,  what  have  I  done?  And  in  the  face  of  all  your  warnings!" 

Burlingame  smiled.  "Tou've  administered  innocent  Justice,  I  should  say." 

"Nay,  twit  me  not,  in  the  name  of  Heaven!"  He  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands.  "Would  God  I'd  stayed  in  London!" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  421  ] 

"Did  old  Andrew  grant  you  power  of  attorney?  If  not,  you  had  no  right 
to  make  the  gift/' 

"He  never  should  have,"  Ebenezer  answered,  "but  he  did.  I  have  signed 
away  his  estate,  and  my  whole  legacy,  to  that  thieving  cooper!" 

Burlingame  sucked  on  his  pipe.  "  'Twas  a  fool's  conveyance,  but  what's 
done  is  done.  How  doth  it  feel,  to  be  a  pauper  like  myself?" 

Ebenezer  could  not  reply  at  once.  Tears  came  to  his  eyes,  and  he  hung 
his  head.  "  Twas  Anna's  dowry  too,  the  half  of  it:  I  shall  make  over  to  her 
my  share  of  the  house  in  Plumtree  Street,  and  beg  her  pardon.  But  whatever 
will  Father  say?" 

"Stay,  now,"  said  Burlingame,  "don't  preach  the  funeral  ere  the  patient 
is  quite  dead.  What  do  we  know  of  this  William  Smith?  He  made  his  exit 
when  you  fell  a-swoon." 

"He  is  a  scoundrel,  else  he'd  not  have  taken  such  advantage  of  my 
innocence." 

"That  only  proves  him  human,  as  you  shall  learn.  D'you  think  he  is 
the  William  Smith  we  came  for?" 

"How  could  he  be,  a  simple  cooper?  I  had  his  history  from  Susan  Warren 
back  at  Mitchell's." 

But  Burlingame  frowned.  "There  is  more  to  him  than  that,  and  her  as 
well,  but  God  knows  what;  one  schemer  hath  an  eye  for  others.  Twould 
not  at  all  surprise  me  to  learn  he  is  our  man,  a  secret  agent  of  Lord 
Baltimore's." 

"What  boots  it  if  he's  Governor  of  the  Province?"  Ebenezer  asked 
gloomily.  "Maiden  is  his  in  any  case." 

"Haply  so,  haply  so.  Or  haply  when  he  leams  our  mission  he  will  be 
more  reasonable." 

Ebenezer  brightened  at  once.  "FGod,  Henry,  do  you  believe  it?" 

Burlingame  shrugged.  "No  behavior  is  impossible  in  the  world.  Leave 
things  to  trie,  and  I  shall  learn  whate'er  I  can.  You'd  best  assume  thou'rt 
penniless  for  the  nonce,  as  well  you  may  be,  and  say  nothing  of  our  hope. 
Drown  your  loss  in  liquor  like  the  lot  of  men." 

By  this  time  the  Laureate's  resuscitation  had  been  observed  by  the  other 
patrons  of  the  inn,  who  so  far  from  deriding  him,  invited  him  to  drink  at 
their  expense. 

"Don't  they  know  yet  of  my  loss?"  he  asked  Burlingame. 

"Aye,  they  know.  Some  knew  it  from  the  first,  and  only  later  learned 
'twas  not  intended."  . 

"What  a  ninny  they  must  think  me!" 


[  422  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Again  Burlingame  shrugged.  "Less  of  a  saint  and  more  of  a  man.  You'd 
as  well  oblige  'em,  don't  you  think?" 

Ebenezer  started  up  from  the  bench,  but  sank  back  again  in  despair. 
"Nay,  great  God,  how  can  I  stand  about  and  drink  when  I  have  thrown 
away  my  Maiden?  Tis  the  pistol  I  should  turn  to,  not  the  ale-glass!" 

"There  is  a  lesson  in  your  loss,"  his  friend  replied,  "but  'tis  not  for  me 
to  teach  it."  He  got  up  from  his  chair.  "Well,  now  thou'rt  landless  like  my- 
self, will  you  get  drunk  as  I  intend  to?" 

Still  the  poet  hesitated.  "I  fear  liquor  as  I  fear  fevers,  drugs,  and  dreams, 
that  change  a  man's  perspective.  A  man  should  see  the  world  as  it  is,  for 
good  or  ill." 

'That  is  a  boon  you've  ne'er  been  vouchsafed  yet,  my  friend.  Why  hope 
for't  tonight?" 

"Unkind!"  protested  Ebenezer.  "'Tis  only  that  I've  ne'er  been  drunk 
before." 

"Nor  ever  a  placeless  pauper,"  Henry  retorted.  "But  do  as  you  list."  He 
turned  his  back  on  Ebenezer  and  went  alone  to  the  bar,  where  he  was 
welcomed  familiarly  as  Tim  Mitchell  by  the  other  patrons.  And  Ebenezer, 
whose  objections  had  been  more  cautionary  than  heartfelt,  soon  joined  him 
—not  alone  because  his  loss  was  too  staggering  to  look  at  squarely,  but  also 
because  he  did  not  feel  altogether  well.  Whether  owing  to  the  flatulence 
of  the  roan,  his  alarm  at  Henry's  ill  treatment  of  Father  Smith,  or— 
what  seemed  most  likely  to  him— that  same  period  of  "seasoning,"  endured 
by  all  new  arrivals  to  the  colonies,  to  which  his  mother  had  succumbed, 
his  stomach  had  been  uneasy  since  the  morning,  and  his  brow  a  trifle  fever- 
ish since  noon.  It  was  relief  from  this  incipient  malaise,  as  well  as  from 
the  misery  of  his  circumstances,  that  he  looked  for  in  the  liquor. 

"Hi,  now!"  a  planter  cried  at  his  approach.  "Here  comes  our  Christlike 
Laureate  at  last!"  There  was  no  malice  in  his  tone  at  all;  his  greeting  was 
echoed  by  the  others,  who  made  room  for  him  and  went  so  far  as  to  swear 
to  the  barman  that  they  would  leave  in  a  body  if  their  new  comrade  were 
not  given  free  rum  at  once. 

Their  cordiality  moistened  the  poet's  eyes.  "'Tis  not  a  proper  Laureate 
you  see  before  you,  friends,"  he  began,  speaking  with  some  difficulty.  "Nay, 
rather  it  is  the  very  prince  of  fools,  and  yet  thou'rt  civil  to  him  as  to  a 
man  of  sense.  I  shan't  forget  it." 

Burlingame  looked  up  with  interest  at  the  outset  of  this  speech,  but 
seemed  disappointed  by  its  close. 

"One  folly  doth  not  make  a  fool,"  someone  replied. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Twas  a  princely  stupid  grant,"  another  declared,  "and  you've  a 
princely  misery  in  exchange  for't.  Methinks  thou'rt  quits/' 

Ebenezer  drank  off  his  rum  and  was  given  another.  "A  fortune  poorer 
and  a  groatsworth  wiser?"  He  shook  his  head.  "I  see  no  bargain  in't." 

"That  is  the  way  oft,  nonetheless,"  said  Burlingame,  in  the  accents  of 
Timothy  Mitchell.  "'Unless  a  man  matriculate  betimes,  Life's  college  hath 
a  dear  tuition.  Besides,  thou'rt  in  a  venerable  position." 

"Venerable!"  protested  the  Laureate.  "If  you  mean  I'm  not  the  world's 
initial  ass,  then  I  agree,  but  I  see  naught  in  that  to  venerate!" 

"Drink  up,  and  I'll  explain."  His  tutor  smiled  and,  when  Ebenezer  com- 
plied, he  said,  "What  is  your  lot,  if  not  the  lot  of  man?" 

"Haply  'tis  the  rum  beclouds  me,"  Ebenezer  interrupted,  "for  I  see  nor 
sense  nor  rhyme  in  that  remark."  He  terminated  his  statement  with  a  belch, 
to  his  new-found  friends'  amusement,  and  called  for  another  drink. 

"I  mean  'tis  Adam's  story  thou'rt  re-enacting."  Henry  went  on.  "Ye  set 
great  store  upon  your  innocence,  and  by  reason  oft  have  lost  your  earthly 
paradise.  Nay,  I  shall  take  the  conceit  e'en  farther:  not  only  hath  your 
adventure  left  ye  homeless,  but  like  Adam  ye've  your  first  bellyful  of  knowl- 
edge and  experience;  ye'll  pluck  easy  fruit  no  more  to  line  your  gut  with, 
but  earn  your  bread  with  guilty  sweat,  as  do  the  mass  of  men.  Your  father, 
if  I  know  him,  will  not  lose  this  chance  to  play  the  wrathful  God  and  turn 
ye  out  o'  the  Garden!" 

Ebenezer  laughed  as  readily  as  the  others  at  this  analogy,  if  not  so 
heartily,  and  mug  in  hand  replied,  "Such  conceits  as  that  are  spirited 
horses,  that  if  not  rid  with  art  will  take  their  riders  far  afield." 

"Ye  do  not  like  it?" 

"The  fault  is  not  in  the Hi,  there!"  In  gesturing  his  dissent  Ebenezer 

had  splashed  a  deal  of  rum  on  his  shirt.  "What  waste  of  brew,  sirs!  Prithee 
fill  me  up.  There's  a  Christian  Dorsetman!"  This  time  he  drank  off  half  a 
glass  before  he  spoke.  "What  was  I  saying,  now,  good  friends?"  He  frowned 
at  his  dripping  garment.  "From  the  way  the  water  broke,  I  judge  some 
mighty  thought  was  in  travail:  another  Errare  hurnanum  est,  for  aught 
you  know,  or  Fiat  justitia  mat  caelum" 

"It  had  to  do  with  horses,"  said  one  of  the  delighted  patrons. 

'With  horses!" 

"Aye,"  another  laughed,  "ye  were  in  argument  with  Tim  Mitchell  here." 

"Pray  God  the  jade  is  windless,  then,"  Ebenezer  said.  "I  am  sick  to 
death  of  horsefart  from  our  last  contest  of  wit!" 

Though  none  but  Burlingame  really  understood  this  remark,  it  was  re- 


TSE'  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

ceived  with  great  hilarity  by  the  planters,  who  now  vied  with  one  another 
to  buy  the  Laureate  drinks. 

"Twas  Master  Tim's  conceit  ye  took  to  task,"  one  said. 

"Indeed?  Then  let  him  look  to't,  for  just  as  Many  can  pack  the  cards 
that  cannot  play,  so  many  can  turn  a  rhyme  that  are  not  poets.  Good  rhymes 
are  mere  embroidery  on  the  muse's  drawers,  but  metaphor's  their  very  warp 
and  woof— if  I  may  say  so." 

"Ye  never  would  have  ere  this  night,"  said  Burlingame,  who  seemed 
not  amused. 

"I  have't  now!"  Ebenezer  cried;  the  company  smiled  and  urged  him  to 
drink  dry  his  glass  before  he  spoke. 

"  Twas  all  that  likening  me  to  Adam  I  took  issue  with."  He  wiped  his 
mouth  on  his  sleeve  and  leaned  his  elbow  in  a  puddle  on  the  bar.  "Me- 
thinks  friend  Timothy  hath  forgot  old  Adam  was  a  sinner,  and  that  his 
Original  Sin  was  knowledge  and  experience.  Ere  he  took  his  sinful  bite 
he  was  immortal  as  the  beasts,  that  learn  little  from  experience  and  know 
not  death;  once  glutted  with  the  fruit  of  Learning's  orchard,  'twas  his  pun- 
ishment to  groan  with  the  heartburn  of  despair,  and  to  grope  his  little  way 
in  the  black  foreshadow  of  his  death." 

Burlingame  shrugged.  "  'Twas  what  I " 

"Stay,"  the  Laureate  commanded,  "I  am  not  done!"  For  all  Burlingame 
had  urged  Ebenezer  to  drink,  he  was  plainly  annoyed  by  his  prot6g6's 
alcoholic  eloquence;  he  turned  away  to  his  own  glass,  and  the  patrons 
nudged  each  other  with  apprehensive  mirth,  for  their  guest  of  honor  seemed 
bent  on  baiting  him. 

"What  you  forgot  in  your  o'erhasty  trope,"  Ebenezer  declared:  "was  just 
the  sort  of  apple  Father  Adam  bit.  What  knowledge  is  it,  Timmy,  that  is 
root  and  stem  of  all?  What  vile  experience  sows  the  seeds  of  death  in  men? 
I'faith,  how  did  it  slip  your  mind,  that  are  so  big  with  seed  yourself  and 
have  broadcast  in  the  furrows  of  two  hemispheres?  'Twas  carnal  knowledge, 
Tim  boy,  experience  of  the  flesh,  that  caused  man's  fall!  If  I  am  Adam, 
I  am  Eveless,  and  Adam  Eveless  is  immortal  and  unfallen.  In  fine,  sir,  my 
estate  is  lost,  but  I  am  not,  and  there's  an  end  on't!" 

"Your  tongue  runs  over,"  Burlingame  grumbled. 

"Behold  him,  citizens  of  Dorset!"  the  poet  cried,  and  pointed  more  or 
less  at  Burlingame  with  one  hand  while  he  tipped  back  his  rum-glass  with 
the  other.  "Ecce  signum!  Finem  re&pice!  If  knowledge  be  sin  and  death, 
as  Scripture  says,  there  stands  a  Faustus  of  the  flesh— a  very  Lucifer!" 

"Nay,  poet,  ye  go  too  far,"  a  planter  cautioned.  "This  is  no  feckless  Quaker 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  425  ] 

thou'rt  abusing."  Several  others  echoed  his  discomfort;  some  even  moved 
discreetly  from  the  bar  to  nearby  tables,  where  they  could  watch  without 
being  mistaken  for  participants. 

Whether  aware  of  the  change  in  their  attitude  or  not,  Ebenezer  went 
on  undaunted.  "This  man  you  see  here  is  more  knowledgeable  than, a  squad 
of  Oxford  dons,  and  more  versed  in  carnal  lore  than  Aretino!  Beside  him 
old  Cartesius  is  a  numbskull,  Wallenstein  a  guileless  babe,  and  Rabelais 
but  a  mincing  Puritan.  Behold  his  cheeks,  that  wear  the  ashy  hue  of  Chaos! 
Behold  his  brow,  deep-furrowed  by  the  history  of  the  race!" 

"I  prithee  stay!"  someone  entreated  him. 

"Behold  his  eyes,  sirs,  that  have  read  of  every  unholy  deed  e'er  dreamt 
of  by  the  tortuous  mind  of  man,  and  looked  on  these  same  deeds  done 
in  the  flesh!  Oh,  in  particular  behold  those  eyes,  so  full  of  death!  Turn 
round  here,  Henry— Timothy,  I  mean!— turn  round  for  us,  Timmy,  and 
chill  us  with  those  eyes!  They  are  cold  and  ancient  as  a  reptile's,  friends 
—in  sooth,  in  sooth,  they  are  the  eyes  of  Eden's  serpent,  that,  nested  in 
the  Tree  of  Knowledge,  enthralled  the  earth's  first  woman  with  his  winkless 
stare!" 

''Curb  thy  drunken  tongue,"  warned  Burlingame.  "Thou'rt  prating  non- 
sense!" 

But  Ebenezer  was  too  far  gone  in  rum  and  wrath  to  leave  off  his  tirade. 
"Oh  Lord,  good  sirs,  behold  those  eyes!  How  many  maids  hath  that  stare 
rendered  helpless,  that  soon  were  maids  no  morel  What  a  deal  of  innocence 
have  those  two  hands  corrupted!" 

"This  is  Tim  Mitchell  ye  speak  tol"  a  frightened  planter  said.  "How 
is't  ye  dare  abuse  him  so?" 

"How  is't  I  dare?"  the  poet  repeated.  His  gaze. never  left  Burlingame, 
whose  face  betrayed  increasing  irritation.  He  set  down  his  glass,  and  his 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  "Because  he  hath  with  his  infamous  guile  bewitched 
one  innocent  flower,  most  precious  to  my  heart  of  all,  a  very  paragon  of 
gentle  chastity,  and  sought  by  every  foul  means  to  possess  her!" 

"Stop!"  Burlingame  commanded. 

"  'Tis  for  this  alone  he  feigns  to  be  my  friend  and  makes  game  of  my 
innocence  but  takes  no  umbrage  at  my  abuse:  he  still  pursues  his  evil  end. 
Yet  I  am  proud  to  say  his  craft  thus  far  hath  borne  no  fruit:  this  flower's 
virtue  is  of  hardy  stock,  and  hath  not  yet  succumbed  to  his  vile  blandish- 
ment. Lookee,  how  the  truth  doth  gall  him!  This  embodiment  of  cosmic 
lust— how  doth  it  fret  him  to  see  that  flower  go  still  unpluckedl" 


[426]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Burlingame  sighed  and  turned  grimly  to  the  company.  "Since  it  is  your 
pleasure  to  noise  these  privy  matters  in  a  public  house,  young  man,  and 
boast  so  of  my  talents  to  these  gentlemen,  I  must  insist  ye  tell  the  whole, 
unvarnished  truth  about  this  flower/' 

"And  what  is  that?"  the  Laureate  asked,  but  with  some  apprehension 
in  his  sneer.  "You  will  never  know  her  one  tenth  as  well  as  I  do." 

"Of  that  I  have  no  doubt,  Master  Laureate;  yet  to  hear  ye  speak  of  her, 
these  gentlemen  must  think  your  flower  as  thorny  as  the  brier  rose,  or 
difficult  of  access  as  the  lofty  edelweiss.  Yet  ten  years  and  more  ago,  whilst 
still  a  bud,  she  came  to  me  for  plucking  and  bade  me  be  the  first  to  taste 
her  nectar.  These  eyes  of  mine,  that  ye  make  much  of:  how  often  she 
hath  unfolded  all  her  petals  for  their  delight!  And  with  these  hands  and 
this  mouth,  to  say  no  farther,  many  and  many  a  time  I  have  brought  her 
to  the  brink  of  madness— aye,  and  made  her  swoon  for  joy!  A  little  growth 
or  mole  she  hath— ye  know  her  so  well,  I  need  not  mention  where-— which 
if  ye  press  it  such-a-way " 

Ebenezer  had  gone  white;  his  features  roiled  and  boiled  about.  "Stop!" 
he  gasped. 

"And  her  most  modest  countenance— ye  must  know  even  more  than  I 
what  sweet  perversions  it  conceals!  That  little  language  that  she  speaks 
without  her  mouth,  and  her  endless  tricks  to  conjure  manliness " 

The  company  laughed  and  rolled  their  eyes  at  one  another.  Ebenezer 
clutched  his  throat,  unable  to  speak,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  arms  upon 
the  bar.  Though  he  had  stopped  drinking,  the  alcohol  still  mounted  to  his 
head.  His  palms  and  forehead  sweated,  saliva  poured  into  his  mouth,  and 
his  stomach  churned. 

"I  scarce  need  mention  that  most  fetching  game  of  all,"  Burlingame 
went  on  relentlessly,  "the  one  she  plays  when  other  pleasures  fail— have 
ye  remarked  it?  I  mean  the  game  she  calls  Heavenly  Twins,  or  Abel  and 
Jumella,  but  I  call  Riding  to  Gomorrah—" 

"Wretch!"  shrieked  Ebenezer,  and  endeavored  to  fling  himself  upon  his 
former  tutor;  but  he  was  held  fast  by  the  planters  and  counseled  to  keep 
his  wrath  in  check.  His  vision  swam:  his  equilibrium  left  him,  and  he  fell 
into  a  fit  of  retching  at  the  image  of  what  he'd  heard.  As  though  from 
another  room  he  heard  Burlingame  say,  "  Tis  time  to  fill  the  pipes.  Take 
him  somewhere  to  sleep  his  liquor  out,  and  mind  ye  treat  him  well,  for  he's 
a  prize."  And  then,  as  two  planters  bore  him  from  the  room:  "Sleep  ye  now, 
my  fair  young  Laureate;  in  all  thy  orifices  be  my  sins  remembered!" 


29:  THE  UNHAPPY  END  OF  MYNHEER  WILHELM 
TICK,  AS  RELATED  TO  THE  LAUREATE  BY  MARY 
MUNGUMMORY,  THE  TRAVELING  WHORE  0'  DORSET 


BY  THE  TIME  EBENEZER  HAD  QUITE  SLEPT  OFF  THE  EFFECTS  OF  HIS  RUM, 

the  sky  over  Maryland  had  already  begun  to  lighten.  During  the  night— 
which  happened  to  be  the  last  in  September— the  Indian  summer  had  given 
way  to  more  characteristic  autumn  weather;  indeed,  the  early  morning 
air  was  positively  cold,  and  it  was  the  chattering  of  his  teeth,  and  general 
shivering,  that  woke  the  Laureate  up. 

"Dear  God!"  he  cried,  and  sat  up  at  once.  He  found  himself  in  a  sort 
of  corncrib  at  one  end  of  a  stable,  presumably  behind  the  ordinary,  his 
legs  and  trunk  buried  in  the  coarse-grained  ears.  One  at  a  time  his  woes 
revealed  themselves:  he  had  lost  Maiden  forever  and  had  surely  alienated 
Burlingame  as  well— whose  shocking  declarations,  the  poet  now  felt  cer- 
tain, had  been  invented  deliberately  for  their  retaliatory  and  sobering  effect. 

'Tfaith,  I  had  it  coming!"  he  reflected. 

He  was,  moreover,  in  a  wretched  state  of  health:  his  head  throbbed  from 
the  rum,  the  light  hurt  his  eyes,  and  his  stomach  was  still  none  too  strong. 
The  chill  air,  in  addition,  had  turned  his  previous  indisposition  into  a  real 
ague:  he  sneezed  and  shivered  and  ran  at  the  nose,  and  ached  in  every 
joint. 

"Lovely  treatment  for  their  Laureate!"  He  resolved  to  chastise  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  inn  severely,  even  sue  him  if  he  could  find  proper  grounds, 
and  it  was  not  until  he  stirred  to  carry  out  this  resolve  that  he  realized 
the  main  cause  of  his  chill:  his  coat,  hat,  and  breeches  were  gone,  and  he 
lay  clothed  in  hose  and  drawers  only— his  erstwhile  companions  had  appar- 
ently taken  advantage  of  his  condition  to  steal  his  clothes.  He  could  think 
of  nothing  to  do  except  appeal  for  help  from  the  first  person  to  bring  a 
horse  out  to  the  stable;  in  the  meantime  he  was  obliged  to  dig  a  sort  of 
well  into  the  corncobs,  lower  himself  into  it,  and  pack  the  rough  ears  all 
about  him  to  keep  the  breeze  off. 

"Out  on't!"  he  swore  after  an  hour  had  passeU  'Where  are  the  man's 
customers?" 

He  attempted  to  while  away  the  minutes  by  composing  couplets  to  flay 


[428]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

all  innkeepers,  from  that  one  who  had  put  Joseph  and  Mary  in  the  stable 
at  Bethlehem  to  the  one  who  allowed  the  Laureate  of  Maryland  to  sleep 
in  a  miserable  corncrib— but  his  heart  was  not  in  his  work,  and  he  gave  it 
up  when  he  found  himself  unable  to  summon  a  rhyme  for  diabolical.  He  had 
not  eaten  since  noon  of  the  previous  day:  as  the  sun  rose,  his  stomach 
growled  and  rumbled.  His  sneezing  grew  more  severe,  and  he  had  nothing 
more  delicate  than  a  corncob  on  which  to  wipe  his  nose.  At  length,  begin- 
ning to  fear  that  he  would  perish  of  exposure  before  anyone  came  to  rescue 
him,  he  raised  a  great  shout  for  assistance.  Again  and  again  he  called,  to 
no  avail,  until  at  last  a  large  and  blowzy  woman  of  middle  age,  happening 
to  drive  her  wagon  into  the  yard,  heard  his  cries,  reined  in  her  horse,  and 
came  over  to  the  stable. 

"Who's  in  there?"  she  demanded.  "And  what  in  thunder  ails  ye  so?"  Her 
voice  was  loud  and  husky,  and  her  proportions— more  truly  seen  now  she 
was  standing— prodigious.  She  wore  the  ubiquitous  Scotch  cloth  of  the  work- 
ing Marylander;  her  face  was  red-brown  and  wrinkled,  and  her  grey  hair 
as  tangled  as  an  old  brier-thicket.  So  far  from  showing  alarm  at  Ebenezer's 
outcries,  her  eyes  narrowed  with  what  seemed  to  be  anticipatory  mirth, 
and  her  half-toothed  mouth  already  smiled. 

"Keep  hence!"  cried  Ebenezer.  "Pray  come  no  nearer  till  I  explain! 
I  am  Ebenezer  Cooke,  Poet  and  Laureate  of  this  province." 

"Ye  do  not  tell  me!  Well,  I  am  Mary  Mungummory,,  that  once  was 
called  the  Traveling  Whore  o7  Dorset,  but  I  don't  boast  oft.  Why  is't  ye 
linger  in  the  corncobs,  Master  Poet?  Are  ye  making  verse  or  making  water?" 

"God  forfend  I'd  choose  such  a  sanctuary  to  piss  in,"  the  poet  replied, 
"and  'twould  want  a  cleverer  wight  than  I  to  turn  a  corncob  into  art." 

The  woman  chuckled.  "Belike  thou'rt  playing  unnatural  games,  then?" 

"From  what  I've  learnt  of  Marylanders  these  few  days,  I'm  not  surprised 
that  you  should  think  so.  Howbeit,  'tis  only  your  assistance  I  crave." 

"Well,  now,  is  that  a  fact!"  Mary  laughed  immensely  and  approached 
the  corncrib. 

"Nay,  madam!"  Ebenezer  pleaded.  "I  fear  you've  misconstrued  me:  I've 
not  a  farthing  to  buy  aught  of  your  services." 

"De'il  have  your  farthings,"  the  big  woman  said.  "I  care  naught  for  far- 
things till  the  sun  goes  down.  Twill  be  enough  for  me  to  see  what  a  poet 
looks  like."  She  climbed  up  into  the  corncrib,  rumbling  with  amusement. 

"Stay  hence!"  Ebenezer  raked  desperately  at  additional  ears  of  corn 
to  cover  his  shame.  "*Tis  but  a  Christian  service  I  beg  of  you,  madam." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  429  ] 

Briefly  he  explained  his  plight,  and  ended  by  imploring  Mary  to  find  him 
some  clothing  at  once,  before  the  ague  carried  him  off. 

The  whole  story  vastly  entertained  her,  and  to  the  poet's  joy  she  said, 
"'Tis  no  chore  at  all,  young  man:  I've  a  pair  or  two  o'  breeches  in  my 
wagon,  I'm  certain."  She  explained  that  her  sobriquet  was  the  pride  of  her 
younger  years,  when  she  had  traveled  by  wagon  from  plantation  to  planta- 
tion to  practice  her  trade.  Now  that  she  was  old,  she  had  turned  to  pro- 
curing for  a  living;  she  and  her  girls  made  a  monthly  circuit  of  every  settle- 
ment and  large  plantation  in  the  county,  breaking  their  schedule  only  for 
such  events  as  the  semi-yearly  sessions  of  the  court. 

From  her  wagon  she  fetched  a  pair  of  buckskin  trousers,  a  shirt  of  the 
same  material,  and  Indian  moccasins,  all  of  which  she  flung  up  to  Ebenezer. 

"Here  ye  be,  sir/'  she  said  with  a  chuckle,  and  climbed  up  after.  "They 
belong  to  a  young  Abaco  gallant  name  o'  Tom  Rockahominy^  that  lives 
in  Gum  Swamp.  He  had  to  bid  us  a  quick  farewell  last  night  when  a  troop 
of  Wiwash  braves  moved  in.  Put  'em  on." 

"I  cannot  express  my  gratitude,"  Ebenezer  said,  Baiting  for  her  to  leave. 
"Thou'rt  almost  the  first  kind  soul  I've  met  in  Maryland." 

"Make  haste,"  the  woman  urged.  "I  am  dying  to  see  what  you  brave  lads 
look  like,  that  have  love  on  the  brain  from  one  verse  to  the  next." 

It  was  only  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  Ebenezer  persuaded  her  to 
vacate  the  corncrib  long  enough  for  him  to  dress.  Indeed,  his  efforts  would 
have  been  entirely  in  vain,  so  determined  was  she  to  satisfy  her  curiosity, 
had  not  his  extraordinary  modesty  amused  her  even  more. 

"The  plain  truth  is,  madam,  I  am  a  virgin,  and  mean  to  remain  one. 
No  woman  in  my  memory  hath  ever  seen  my  body." 

"Dear  mother  of  God!"  Miss  Mungummory  cried.  "I  will  pay  ye  two 
hundredweight  o'  tobacco  to  be  the  first— that  is  the  price  of  one  o'  my 
girls!" 

But  the  poet  declined  her  offer,  and  it  was  with  awe  as  well  as  mirth 
that  at  last  she  climbed  out  of  the  corncrib. 

"At  least  ye  might  tell  me  somewhat  about  it,  seeing  I  did  ye  a  service. 
Haply  Nature  played  the  niggard  with  ye,  and  thou'rt  ashamed?" 

"I  am  a  man  like  other  men,"  Ebenezer  said  stiffly,,  "and  I  quite  ap- 
preciate my  debt  to  you,  Miss  Mungummory.  Tis  merely  that  I  am  loath 
to  break  my  personal  vows;  else  out  of  gratitude  I  would  engage  you  in 
your  professional  capacity." 

"Ah  now,  sir,  such  a  boast  doth  not  become  ye!  A  man  like  others 
ye  may  well  be,  but  think  npt  thou'rt  a  match  for  my  professional  capacity!" 


[430]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

She  laughed  so  hard  that  it  was  necessary  for  her  to  sit  down  on  the  earthen 
floor  of  the  stable.  "I  once  knew  a  salvage  down  the  county,  had  the  fear- 
somest  way  with  him  ye  ever  could  imagine.  There  was  the  man  for  my 
professional  capacity!  Belike  ye've  heard  what  happens  to  a  man  when 
they  hang  him?  Well,  sir,  the  day  they  hanged  poor  Charley  for  the  murther 
of  my  sister— it  makes  the  tears  come  yet  when  I  recall  the  picture  of 
him  ... " 

"I  say  now,  Miss  Mungummory,  this  is  extraordinary!"  Ebenezer  finished 
dressing  and  climbed  out  of  the  corncrib.  "What  was  this  Indian's  name?" 

But  Mary  could  not  reply  at  once,  for  the  sight  of  the  poet  sent  her  into 
new  flights  of  hilarity.  He  was  indeed  an  uncommon  spectacle:  the  Indian 
garments  were  far  too  small  for  his  towering  frame,  and  were  rendered 
doubly  bizarre  by  contrast  with  his  English  hose. 

"I  thought  I  heard  you  call  him  Charley"  Ebenezer  said  with  as  much 
dignity  as  he  could  muster,  "and  I  wondered  whether  I'd  not  heard  some- 
thing of  him  before/' 

"Oh,,  everybody  knows  of  Charley  Mattassin,"  Mary  said  when  she  caught 
her  breath.  "One  of  the  folks  he  murthered  was  my  sister  Katy,  the  Sea- 
going Whore  o'  Dorset/' 

"Marry,  this  is  fantastic!  The  wretch  murthers  your  sister,  and  you  speak 
almost  endearingly  of  him!  And  what  is  this  about  a  seagoing  whore? 
'Sdeath!" 

"Tis  what  they  called  her,  and  God  rest  her  jealous  soul,  I  bear  no 
malice  toward  her,  for  all  she  turned  my  Charley's  head." 

Nothing  would  do  then  but  she  tell  Ebenezer  the  story  of  her  sister's 
murder  at  the  hands  of  Charley  Mattassin— a  story  which,  despite  his  im- 
patience to  find  Burlingame,  the  Laureate  consented  to  hear,  both  be- 
cause he  owed  his  rescue  to  the  teller  and  because  he  had  recognized  the 
murderer  as  that  same  incorrigible  Indian  who  had  told  Father  Thomas 
Smith  of  Joseph  FitzMaurice's  martyrdom.  He  drew  up  a  wooden  box  to 
sit  upon  and  pulled  self-consciously  at  his  shirt  sleeves  as  if  to  stretch  them 
into  fit.  Mary  Mungummory  elected  to  remain  seated  on  the  ground,  but 
took  the  trouble  to  prop  her  great  back  against  the  wall  of  the  stable  before 
she  began  her  tale. 

"  'Tis  as  true  a  thing  of  women  as  of  cats,"  she  asserted,  "that  whatso- 
ever they  are  told  they  may  not  have,  that  thing  they  will  move  Heav'n 
and  earth  to  get— particularly  where  love  is  concerned.  God  help  the  hus- 
band that  obliges  his  wife's  least  whim:  he'll  be  a  wittol  ere  he's  two  years 
wed!  As  one  o'  your  poets  hath  written: 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  431  ] 

When  old  Man  takes  young  Wife  to  warm  his  Bower, 
He  finds  his  Cuckold's  Horns  among  her  Dower" 

"That  is  well  put,"  Ebenezer  said,  "though  what  connection  it  might 
bear  to  your  story  I  can't  say." 

"My  sister  Katy  had  just  such  a  husband,  and  schemed  his  ruin,  but  was 
hoist  by  her  own  petard."  Mary  sighed.  "Kate  was  less  a  sister  than  a  daugh- 
ter to  me.  Our  mother  walked  the  streets  near  Newgate  Market,  and  in 
thirty  years  o'  whoring  made  but  two  mistakes:  the  first  was  to  trust  a 
parson,  and  the  second  was  to  trust  a  physician." 

Ebenezer  expressed  surprise  at  such  cynicism  in  so  charitable  a  soul  as 
that  of  his  benefactress.  "Is  there  no  one  you  trust?" 

Mary  shrugged  and  said,  "  Tis  a  question  o'  what  ye'd  trust  'em  with, 
is't  not?  In  any  case  I  bear  'em  no  grudge:  When  a  fox  hath  a  hen  within 
his  grasp,  he  mil  eat  her,  and  when  a  man  hath  a  woman  in  his  power, 
he  will  swive  her.  My  mother  was  a  starving  orphan  girl  that  begged  about 
the  streets  for  food.  Ere  she  reached  thirteen,  so  many  men  had  tried  to 
force  her  that  she  begged  the  rector  of  her  parish  for  sanctuary  and  was 
admitted  to  his  kitchen  as  a  scullion.  This  rector  was  a  proper  Puritan, 
and  not  an  evening  passed  but  he  called  her  to  his  chambers  to  harangue 
her  on  the  Labyrinth  of  the  Heart,  and  Original  Sin,  and  the  Canker  in 
the  Rose.  To  bolster  her  against  the  carnal  wiles  of  men  he  devised  a  set 
of  spiritual  exercises,,  one  of  which  was  to  uncover  himself  in  her  presence 
and  oblige  her  to  grasp  him  like  a  sacred  relic,  at  the  same  time  reciting 
a  prayer  against  temptations  of  the  flesh.  He  was  much  concerned  for 
her  virginity,  and  at  the  same  time  doubtful  of  her  strength  and  honesty; 
for  this  reason  on  Sunday  nights  she  was  obliged  to  confess  to  him  every 
lustful  thought  that  had  crossed  her  mind  through  the  week,  after  which 
he  would  examine  whether  she  still  had  her  maidenhead  as  she  claimed." 

"He  was  a  hypocritical  wretch!"  the  poet  declared. 

"Haply  so,"  Mary  said  indifferently,  "but  I  doubt  it.  He  was  a  wondrous 
kind  and  gentle  minister,  the  pride  of  his  parishioners,  and  raised  my 
mother  as  a  member  of  his  family.  Methinks  he  saw  no  evil  at  all  in 
what  he  did,  e'en  in  his  spiritual  exercises,  that  waxed  more  arduous  as  the 
girl  grew  older.  When  she  was  fifteen,  and  still  a  virgin,  he  had  so  schooled 
her  to  resist  the  fires  of  lust  that  they  could  sit  for  hours  naked  on  his 
couch  and  exchange  every  manner  of  caress,  talking  all  the  while  of  the 
loftiest  and  most  edifying  matters;  to  do  this  was  his  pride  and  his  delight, 
so  Mother  said,  and  the  virtuous  climax  of  a  saintly  week." 


[432]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head.  "The  heart's  a  labyrinth  indeed,  as  he  declared!" 

"Aye,  that  it  is,"  Mary  agreed  with  a  laugh,  "and  anon  the  wight  got 
lost  in'tl  The  riper  grew  his  charge,  the  more  concerned  grew  he  for  her 
honor.  She  was  such  an  eager  and  accomplished  pupil,  and  he  had  given 
her  such  a  wondrous  education— what  a  waste  if  some  blackguard  forced 
her  against  her  will,  and  the  joys  of  swiving  turned  her  head  from  virtue! 
This  notion  so  possessed  him  that  he  talked  of  nothing  else,  and  for  all 
my  mother's  vows  that  she  loathed  no  thought  like  that  of  fornication,  he 
knew  no  peace  till  he  devised  the  most  rigorous  spiritual  exercise  of 
all  .  .  ." 

"Ah  God,  don't  tell  me 1" 

Mary  nodded,  shaking  with  mirth.  "  Twas  but  the  natural  end  of  all 
that  went  before.  One  Sabbath  night  whilst  they  knelt  in  prayer  he  went 
round  behind  and  made  a  mighty  thrust  at  her;  when  she  cried  out 
he  explained  'twas  but  her  final  lesson  in  shackling  fleshly  passions,  and 
bade  her  go  on  with  her  prayers  as  if  she  were  in  church.  Albeit  she  was 
much  troubled  in  spirit,  and  no  silly  child  despite  her  innocence,,  she  thought 
it  better  to  oblige  him  than  to  seem  ungrateful  for  all  his  past  kindness; 
therefore  she  made  no  farther  protest,  but  only  hoped  he  would  take  meas- 
ures to  avoid  certain  consequences,  and  began  the  prayer  again.  Quick  as 
a  wink,  on  the  words  Which  art  in  Heav'n,  he  took  her  maidenhead,  and 
if  he'd  a  mind  to  commit  the  sin  of  Onan  for  her  protection,  he  had  no 
time,  for  on  the  words  Thy  kingdom  come,  I  was  conceived." 

"rfaith!" 

"The  prayer  went  no  farther,  for  in  the  cold  light  that  all  men  look 
through  after  swiving,  the  rector  knew  the  error  of  his  ways  and  turned 
my  mother  out.  From  there  'twas  no  great  step  to  harlotry,  inasmuch  as 
she  was  trained  already  to  do  the  tricks  of  love  as  lightly  as  a  deacon  trims 
his  candles,  with  no  stirrings  o'  the  heart.  I  was  bom  and  raised  in  the 
alleys  o'  Newgate,  and  ere  ever  I  saw  thirteen  I  had  sold  my  first  fruits 
for  two  pound  sterling  to  a  gentleman  of  St.  Andrew's  Undershaft  and 
was  walking  the  streets  with  mother.  'Twas  this  led  her  to  her  second  mis- 
take, with  the  physician " 

"I  doubt  not  'tis  a  tale  well  worth  the  hearing,"  Ebenezer  interrupted, 
"But  I'd  liefer  you  hasten  to  the  matter  at  hand,  else  I'll  not  have  time 
to  hear  you  out." 

"As't  please  ye,"  Mary  chuckled.  "I'll  say  no  more  than  that  my  sister 
Katy  was  the  issue  oft,  as  was  I  of  her  first,  and  my  mother  died  a-bearing. 
I  was  but  fifteen  then  myself,  and  obliged  to  work  the  night  through  to 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [433^ 

feed  the  twain  of  us,  but  I  raised  Katy  like  my  own  daughter,  and  when 
she  was  old  enough  to  stand  the  gaff  but  young  enough  to  whet  the  jaded 
lust  o'  the  wealthy,  I  made  her  a  fine  first  match  with  a  Scottish  earl  that 
was  stopping  in  London,  and  prenticed  her  into  the  trade.  When  we  leamt 
what  prices  were  for  women  in  the  Plantations,  'twas  I  that  brought  us 
over  and  set  us  up  in  Maryland,  where  we  plied  our  business  with  profit 
for  many  a  year.  Yet  so  far  from  feeling  thankful  for  my  care,  young  Kate 
did  e'er  abuse  and  despise  me.  She  was  wont  to  play  the  lady  at  every 
chance,  and  take  my  labors  as  her  due,  and  declare  'twas  my  fault  she  was 
a  whore.  No  man  was  good  enough  for  Kate,  and  while  'tis  true  an  air 
of  refinement  doth  ever  raise  a  harlot's  price,  she  must  never  be  refractory 
in  the  bed;  but  so  capricious  was  dear  Katy,  she'd  ofttimes  lure  a  man 
to  hire  her  and  then  throw  his  money  in  his  face! 

"Now  there  lived  a  wealthy  Dutchman  on  the  Little  Choptank  River, 
name  of  Wilhelm  Tick;  he  was  a  jolly  old  widower,  round  as  a  ball  and 
canny  as  a  Jew,  that  had  got  his  fortune  raising  livestock  in  lieu  o'  sot-weed, 
and  worked  like  any  slavey  to  improve  it.  This  Wilhelm  had  two  grown 
sons  named  Willi  and  Peter,  the  one  not  worth  a  farthing  and  the  other 
not  a  fart,  that  did  naught  from  day  to  mortal  day  but  drink  Barbados  rum 
and  race  their  horses  up  and  down  the  roads  o'  Dorset.  They  were  great 
blond  hulking  wights,  the  pair  of  'em,  more  crafty  than  bright,  and  since 
they  knew  they  were  old  Wilhelm's  only  heirs,  they  were  content  to  let 
him  labor  to  an  early  grave  whilst  they  spent  a  part  of  their  inheritance 
in  advance.  Tis  not  marvelous  to  hear  that  little  Kate  was  a  great  favorite 
with  these  gentlemen,  so  like  were  their  tempers;  devil  the  bit  I  warned 
her  they  were  cruel  and  shifty  louts,  that  oft  as  not  drank  up  her  fee  be- 
fore she  had  a  penny  oft,  she  would  none  o'  my  advice,  and  gave  'em 
their  will  o'  her  whene'er  they  pleased. 

"'Twas  not  till  a  year  of  this  had  passed  that  I  learned  her  true  plan: 
old  Wilhelm,  it  turned  out,  knew  well  his  sons  were  idle  spendthrifts,  that 
cared  not  a  fig  for  all  he'd  done  for  them,  and  after  much  debate  with 
himself  had  vowed  to  change  his  entire  style  of  life.  He  resolved  to  -toil 
no  more  to  increase  his  wealth  but  enjoy  what  he  had  ere  he  died,  and 
spend  the  balance  of  his  years  doing  the  things  men  do  for  pleasure. 

"Just  about  this  time  Willi  and  Peter  found  that  Katy  would  have  no 
more  of  'em,  for  all  they  bribed  and  threatened.  And  albeit  none  knows 
to  this  day  how  she  contrived  it,  within  the  month  she  was  the  bride  of 
Mynheer  Wilhelm  Tick  himself,  that  little  dreamed  what  he'd  wed!  The 
first  the  brothers  knew  oft  was  when  they  found  her  in  their  house,  by 


[4341  TBE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Wilhelm's  side,  and  their  father  said,  'Willi  and  Peter,  this  little  girl  is 
your  new  mother.  We  love  each  other  with  all  our  hearts,  and  ye  must 
cherish  and  respect  her  as  ye  would  your  own  dear  mother  if  she  were  alive/ 

"Then  they  were  obliged  to  bow  to  Katy  and  kiss  her  hand,  but  as  soon 
as  Wilhelm  was  gone  they  turned  on  her,  and  held  her  by  the  arms,  and 
said,  'What  have  ye  told  our  father,  to  turn  his  feeble  head?  D'ye  think  to 
steal  his  wealth  and  leave  us  none?  What  will  he  say  when  we  tell  him 
thou'rt  a  Bridewell  whore  with  lash-marks  on  your  back,  and  have  been 
swived  by  every  wretched  wight  in  Dorset?'  But  Katy  sniffed  at  their 
threats,  for  she  had  given  Wilhelm  to  know  she  was  an  orphan  and  a  virgin, 
and  had  been  whipped  by  her  heartless  sister  for  not  turning  to  harlotry/' 

"That  was  the  most  unkindest  cut  of  all,"  Ebenezer  commiserated. 

"'Twas  very  like  her,  though/'  Mary  sighed.  "And  to  protect  herself 
from  harm,  she  threatened  in  turn  that  should  they  make  a  move  to  injure 
or  malign  her,  she  would  complain  to  Wilhelm  they  were  out  to  make  him 
a  cuckold.  Thus  they  were  obliged  to  stew  in  silence  whilst  their  father 
doted  shamefully  on  Kate,  and  jumped  to  please  her  slightest  whim.  On 
their  wedding  night  she  used  every  trick  I'd  taught  her  to  make  a  man  o' 
Mynheer  Wilhelm,  with  small  success;  for  unlike  Boccaccio's  leek " 

"Boccaccio!"  cried  the  Laureate.  "How  is't  you  know  Boccaccio?  Tis 
too  marvelous!" 

Mary  laughed.  "Tis  e'en  more  marvelous  than  ye  think,  as  I'll  explain 
anon.  Unlike  Boccaccio's  leek,  I  was  about  to  say,  that  hath  a  white  head 
and  a  green  tail,  poor  Wilhelm  bore  more  likeness  to  the  hound  he  called 
a  dachshund,  whose  tail  lags  many  paces  behind  his  head  and  never  can 
o'erhaul  it  But  by  one  means  or  another,  Kate  got  him  briefly  starched, 
and  then  raised  such  a  hue  and  cry  ye'd  have  thought  she  was  Pasiphae 
being  rogered  by  the  bull/' 

"  'Sbody,  madam!  First  Boccaccio  and  now  Pasiphae!" 

"Old  Wilhelm  thought  he'd  got  her  maidenhead,  and  the  more  injury 
she  feigned,  the  more  he  puffed  with  pride.  He  could  not  do  enough  for 
her  after  that,  so  pleased  he  was,  and  within  the  week  he  declared  to  Willi 
and  Peter  that  inasmuch  as  Katy  had  brought  him  his  first  joy  in  years, 
whereas  they  had  given  him  naught  but  pain,  he  had  altered  the  terms 
of  his  will  and  testament:  one  moiety  of  his  estate  was  to  pass  to  Kate, 
and  the  other  to  be  divided  between  the  boys. 

"This  the  wastrels  could  not  abide,  more  especially  since  their  father 
had  taken  to  toiling  so  strenuously  in  the  bed  that  his  health  was  slipping 
fast;  'twould  not  be  long  ere  he  perished  of  the  effort,  and  they  would 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  435  ] 

be  done  out  of  their  legacy.  But  so  like  to  theirs  in  craftiness  was  Katy's 
disposition,  she  knew  well  what  they  schemed,  and  laid  plans  of  her  own 
to  have  the  best  of  'em." 

At  this  point  in  her  narrative  Mary's  face  lost  its  perpetual  expression  of 
good  humor;  her  eyes  darkened,  her  plump  mouth  pursed,  and  lowering 
her  head,  she  worried  a  pebble  on  the  ground  with  an  oat-straw. 

"  Tis  here  that  Charley  Mattassin  steps  on  stage/'  she  said. 

"Ah,"  Ebenezer's  face  brightened.  "The  murtherous  salvage  Indian." 

"Ye  speak  from  ignorance,"  Mary  said  sharply.  "Methinks  ye  should  have 
learned  by  now  what  folly  it  is  to  judge  ere  ye  know  the  facts.  Charley 
Mattassin  was  my  lover,  and  the  dearest  lover  e'er  a  woman  had." 

Ebenezer  blushed  and  apologized,  and  entreated  her  to  proceed  with 
the  story. 

"Charley  Mattassin!"  she  sighed,  and  narrowed  her  downcast  eyes.  "I 
scarce  know  how  to  make  ye  see  him  clear." 

"I  have  heard  already  he  was  the  son  of  a  salvage  king,"  the  poet  offered, 
"and  had  a  wondrous  hatred  of  the  English." 

Mary  nodded.  "He  was  the  son  of  Chicamec,  that  no  white  man  hath 
seen  and  lived  to  tell  it.  His  people  are  a  kind  of  Nanticokes  that  call 
themselves  Ahatchwhoops;  they  live  to  themselves  in  the  wildest  parts  of 
the  Dorset  marshes,  and  move  their  town  from  place  to  place." 

"Marry!  Why  doth  the  Governor  not  reduce  'em?" 

"Because  he  ne'er  could  find  'em,  for  one  thing.  Besides,  their  number 
is  small,  and  they  live  entirely  amongst  themselves.  'Tis  easier  to  forget  them 
than  to  hunt  'em  out  and  kill  'em  at  the  peril  of  your  life  and  member. 
These  Ahatchwhoops  never  look  for  trouble,  but  when  an  Englishman  falls 
into  their  hands  they  either  kill  him  or  make  him  more  wretched  than  a 
eunuch." 

Ebenezer  shuddered  at  the  thought.  "'Twas  perilous  to  take  one  for 
a  lover,  was't  not?" 

Now  tears  welled  up  in  Mary's  eyes.  "He  was  my  first  and  only  love, 
was  Charley  Mattassin.  I  was  forty  years  old  when  I  first  saw  him,  and  he 
no  younger,  but  for  the  both  of  us  'twas  love  at  first  swiving.  His  father, 
Chicamec,  had  sent  him  on  an  embassy  to  another  salvage  king,  Quassape- 
lagh " 

"Quassapelagh!"  cried  the  Laureate,  and  caught  himself  on  the  verge 
of  revealing  his  connection  with  that  fugitive  chief. 

"Aye,  the  famous  Anacostin  King  that  lately  broke  from  jail.  God  alone 
knows  what  mischief  lay  behind  the  errand,  but  'twas  Mattassin's  first  ad- 


[436]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

venture  amongst  the  English.  His  plan  then  was  to  cross  the  Bay  direct 
in  his  canoe,  but  he  got  no  farther  than  the  straits  off  Tangier  Sound  ere 
a  squall  o'  wind  drove  him  onto  the  Dorset  mainland,  'Twas  my  good  for- 
tune I  was  going  my  rounds  just  then,  and  chanced  to  drive  along  a  path 
beside  the  straits.  Mattassin— he  had  no  English  first  name  then,  of  course 
— Mattassin  had  lost  his  canoe  in  the  storm  and,  seeing  he  was  in  English 
country,  had  vowed  to  kill  the  first  white  man  that  passed  and  steal  his 
horse.  He  hid  himself  in  the  bushes  by  the  path,  and  when  my  wagon 
passed  he  sprang  aboard  and  knocked  me  from  the  seat." 

"Mercy!" 

"His  first  thought  was  to  kill  me  and  take  my  scalp,  but  on  reflection 
he  resolved  to  rape  me  first."  Mary's  eyes  shone.  "D'ye  grasp  it,  Master 
Poet?  Fd  been  a  whore  for  twenty-eight  years,  all  told.  Some  twenty 
thousand  times  I  had  been  swived— give  or  take  a  thousand— and  by  almost 
that  many  different  men;  there  was  no  sort  or  size  of  man  I  had  not  known, 
so  I'd  have  sworn,  nor  any  carnal  deed  I  was  not  master  of.  I  had  been 
forced  too  many  times  to  count,  by  paupers  and  poltroons,  and  more  than 
once  myself  had  been  employed  to  rape  young  men." 

"Stay,"  Ebenezer  exclaimed.  "That  is  impossible!" 

"Don't  tempt  your  fate,  dear,"  Mary  warned  with  a  smile.  "I  know  your 
thoughts,  but  naught's  impossible  at  the  end  of  a  pistol."  She  laughed  and 
wept  at  once.  "I've  not  told  ye  yet  the  best  of  all:  he  was  not  tall,  was 
Charley,  but  he  was  a  sturdy  wight,  and  strong  in  the  muscles;  yet  when 
he  set  about  to  do  his  dastard  deed,  I  saw  he  had  no  more  to  do't  with 
than  any  pitiful  puppy-dog!  He  was,  I  swear't,  less  blest  by  half  than  most 
boys  in  their  cradles,  and  withal  he  meant  to  soil  the  honor  o'  Mary  Mun- 
gummory  herself!  Tis  as  if  ye  took  a  bodkin  to  scuttle  a  frigate! 

"So  struck  was  I  by  the  sight  of  him,  'twas  only  his  tomahawk  reined 
in  my  mirth,  and  I'd  no  more  have  resisted,  than  would  a  plowhorse  the 
assault  of  a  flea.  "Have  done  with't,  Charley/  says  I,  making  up  the  name 
for  a  tease,  Tve  two  trappers  and  a  sot-weed  factor  waiting  up  the  path/ 
Whereupon  he  set  to  work,  and  'sbody,  ere  I  knew  what  struck  I  was 
hollowing  for  joy!" 

The  Laureate  frowned,  "I  am  not  privy  to  such  matters,  but  this  hath 
an  air  of  non  sequitur,  or  some  other  of  the  schoolmen's  fallacies," 

Mary  breathed  nostalgically.  "I  have  known  scholards  a-plenty,,  but 
no  phalluses  like  this!" 

"Nay,  Miss  Mungummoiy,  you  mistake  my  meaning!" 

"And  you  mine,"  laughed  Mary.  "For  you  must  know,  sir,  the  wench  that 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

hath  been  twenty  thousand  times  a  harlot  is  no  more  a  child:  she  could 
play  Europa7s  game  and  be  none  the  worse  for't.  But  just  as  a  blind  man, 
lacking  sight,  grows  wondrous  keen  of  nose  and  ear,  or  a  deaf-mute  learns 
to  hear  with  his  eyes  and  speak  with  his  hands,  so  had  my  Charley,  unbe- 
knownst to  me,  learnt  strange  and  wondrous  means  to  reach  his  end!  Thus 
had  good  Mother  Nature  cleared  her  debt  to  him,  after  the  fashion  of  the 
proverb:  what  she  had  robbed  from  Peter,  she  bestowed  on  Paul/7 

Ebenezer  did  not  quite  see  the  aptness  of  the  saying,  but  he  understood 
in  substance  what  she  meant. 

"  'Tis  past  my  knowledge  what  arts  he  practised,  and  past  my  power  to 
tell  my  joy.  Suffice  it  to  say,  there  was  enough  o'  Mother's  blood  in  me 
that  my  heart  was  a  castle,  and  of  two  hundred  men  not  one  had  come  in 
sight  oft.  But  my  Charley,  that  had  not  even  a  lance  to  tilt  with,  in  two 
minutes'  time  had  o'ertopped  the  breastworks,  spanned  the  moat,  hoist  the 
portcullis,  had  his  will  of  every  crenel  and  machicoulis,  and  raised  the 
flag  o'  passion  from  the  merlons  of  my  keep!" 

"  'Sheart!"  the  poet  whispered. 

"  'Twas  some  time  ere  I  regained  my  proper  senses,  so  mad  was  I  with 
bliss,  but  when  I  was  myself  again  I  laid  hold  of  his  hair,  summoned  all 
the  lusty  lore  my  years  had  taught  me,  and  so  repaid  him  in  his  coin  that 
for  half  an  hour  he  lay  nine  parts  a-swoon.  The  upshot  oft  was,  he  ne'er 
saw  town  or  father  again,  and  got  no  closer  to  Quassapelagh  than  my  wagon, 
wherein  we  lived  thenceforth  like  hot-souled  gypsies.  I  played  the  whore 
no  more,  but  indented  other  girls  to  make  my  rounds,  and  clove  to  Charley 
like  a  silly  bride." 

"How  is't  he  did  not  lose  his  hatred  of  the  English?" 

Mary  chuckled  and  shook  her  head.  "That  is  beyond  my  gifts  to  say. 
He  was  wondrous  deep,  was  Charley,  and  sharp  in  the  wits:  in  a  month 
he'd  learnt  to  read  and  speak  our  tongue  like  any  gentleman;  he  made 
me  scour  the  Province  for  books,  and  albeit  I  could  not  grasp  the  half  of 
'em  myself,  he  always  plumbed  their  meaning  at  a  glance.  Twas  as  if  he'd 
thought  the  selfsame  thoughts  himself,  and  better  ones.  Yet  for  all  they'd 
arouse  him,  he  would  not  deign  to  read  'em  himself,  but  set  me  to't,  albeit 
'twas  not  long  ere  I'd  have  to  stop  and  ask  him  what  was  meant  by  such-a- 
word." 

"Indeed!"  Ebenezer  marveled.  "Twas  thus  you  learnt  to  speak  of 
Boccaccio  and  the  Greeks?" 

"Aye.  How  he  loved  and  loathed  the  lot  of  'em,  and  myself  as  well! 
Read  him  half  a  tale  or  half  a  chapter  out  o'  Euclid,  he  could  spin  ye  the 


[438]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

balance  from  his  head;  and  if  it  differed  from  the  text,  'twas  the  author, 
like  as  not,  that  came  off  badly.  Ofttimes  I  felt  his  fancy  bore  a  clutch 
of  worlds,  all  various,  of  which  the  world  these  books  described  was  one " 

"Which,  while  'twas  splendid  here  and  there,"  the  Laureate  interrupted, 
'Tie  could  not  but  loathe  for  having  been  the  case!9 

"That's  it!"  Mary  cried,  her  eyes  bright.  "I  could  ne'er  have  found  the 
words  myself  to  say't,  but  you  have  laid  your  finger  on  its  very  root  and 
fundament!" 

Ebenezer  sighed,  recalling  Burlingame.  "I  know  a  man  who  hath  that 
very  genius,  and  that  very  manner:  he  loves  the  world,  and  comprehends 
it  at  first  glance— sometimes  even  sight  unseen— yet  his  love  is  flavored  with 
a  similar  contempt,  from  the  selfsame  cause,  which  leads  him  to  make  game 
of  what  he  loves." 

This  analysis  of  the  type  must  have  struck  home,  for  tears  ran  freely 
down  the  harlot's  ruddy  cheeks.  "  Twas  in  like  manner  he  looked  on  me," 
she  said.  "He  loved  me— of  that  I'm  sure— yet  for  all  my  bag  o'  tricks  I  was 
merely  woman,  and  but  one  woman.  My  Charley's  curiosity  and  imagina- 
tion knew  no  such  bounds:  I  often  pleased  him,  but  ne'er  surprised  him; 
naught  could  I  do  that  he'd  not  already  dreamt  of." 

"And  would  you  say,"  pressed  the  poet,  much  aroused,  "that  this  cosmic 
love  I  spoke  of  was  as  strong  in  his  flesh  as  in  his  fancy?  What  I  mean, 
did  he  lust  for  aught  that  struck  his  eye,  be't  man  or  maid  or  mandrake 
root,  and  yet  despise  the  world  for  its  meagerness  of  bedfellows?" 

"That  and  more,"  Mary  answered,  "for  so  possessed  was  he  with  this 
same  lust  and  fancy,  he  e'en  despised  himself  that  he  could  not  faicy 
more!  Marry  come  up,  there  never  was  the  like  of  him  in  the  history  of 
the  world!" 

But  Ebenezer  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  and  shook  his  head.  "There 
was  and  is,  wondrous  as't  may  seem.  My  friend  and  former  tutor,,  that  till 
now  I  think  I'd  never  fathomed,  fits  this  picture  marvelous  well!  Do  you 
know  the  man  they  call  Tim  Mitchell?" 

Mary's  expression  changed  to  alarm.  "Are  ye  one  o'  Mitchell's  spies, 
put  here  to  draw  me  out?" 

Surprised,  Ebenezer  assured  her  that  he  was  not,  and  declared  further, 
observing  her  great  apprehension,  "I  did  not  mean  that  Mitchell  was  my 
friend  and  tutor,  but  that  just  as  this  Charley  is  so  like  my  friend  in  every 
way— save  the  color  of  his  skin  and  that  defect  of  his  natural  parts  you 
spoke  of— so  this  Tim  Mitchell,  that  I  met  not  three  days  past,  doth  in 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  439  ] 

some  respects  remind  me  of  my  friend.  Past  that  I  know  naught  o'  the 
man/' 

"Thou'rt  not  his  agent?" 

"I  swear  not.  Why  is't  you  fear  him  so?" 

Mary  sniffed  and  glanced  about  her.  "No  matter  why.  Yell  learn  soon 
enough  if  ye  take  him  for  a  friend."  Beyond  this  she  would  say  no  more 
to  satisfy  the  poet's  curiosity,  and  only  with  considerable  entreaty  could 
he  persuade  her  even  to  return  to  the  story,  so  uneasy  had  the  name  Tim 
Mitchell  made  her. 

"What  hath  your  lover  Charley  to  do  with  Kate  and  Mynheer  Tick?"  he 
asked.  "  'Twere  cruel  to  leave  so  good  a  tale  half-told/' 

"  Tis  not  far  to  the  end  oft/'  Mary  grumbled,  and  with  some  reluctance 
picked  up  the  thread  of  her  story.  "Kate  soon  got  wind  of  how  my  life 
was  changed,  and  lost  no  time  in  seeking  out  the  cause  oft.  I  knew  full 
well  she'd  set  her  cap  for  Charley  directly  she  laid  eyes  on  him,  and  so 
made  every  effort  to  avoid  her.  The  plain  fact  is,  'twas  not  till  he  had  killed 
her  that  I  learned  he'd  been  two  months  her  lover." 

"Nay!" 

"He  told  me  so  himself,  along  with  many  another  thing,  before  they 
took  him  off  to  jail.  Somehow  Miss  Kate  had  sought  him  out,  unbe- 
knownst to  me,  and  told  him  she  was  my  sister.  She  was  fair  of  face,  as  I 
was  not,  and  her  body  was  a  sweetmeat,  where  mine  was  e'er  a  nine-course 
meal.  But  for  all  her  conniving  she  was  dull  and  gameless,  and  a  sluggard 
in  the  bed,  and  spiteful,  and  a  snot;  and  while  Charley  loved  and  hated 
me  at  once,  he  could  only  loathe  a  bitch  like  Kate,  as  even  he  confessed. 
In  sooth,,  that  is  the  explanation  oft." 

Ebenezer  nodded.  "An  hour  ago  I'd  not  have  grasped  your  meaning, 
but  it  seems  no  paradox  now.  Why  did  he  do  the  awful  murthers?" 

"They  hanged  him  for  the  lot  of  'em,"  Mary  said,  "but  Kate  was  the 
only  one  he  slew.  The  rest  slew  one  another,  albeit  dear  Charley  was  the 
engineer." 

She  explained  that  on  becoming  Katy's  lover,  Charley  had  soon  learned 
how  matters  stood  in  the  house  of  Mynheer  Tick,  and  for  reasons  not  im- 
mediately clear  had  taken  pains  to  gain  the  brothers'  confidence— not  a 
difficult  achievement,  since  they  were  regular  patrons  of  Mary's  traveling 
brothel  and  knew  no  more  than  did  its  proprietress  of  his  relationship  with 
Kate.  He  guided  them  on  hunting  trips,  raced  horses  with  them,  and  at  their 
invitation  was  a  frequent  visitor  on  the  Tick  estate,  where  he  would  drink 
and  carouse  on  the  lawn  with  Willi  and  Peter  and  slip  away  at  intervals 


[440]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

to  cuckold  Mynheer  Wilhelm.  It  was  not  long  before  the  brothers  made 
known  to  him  their  fear  and  hatred  of  their  stepmother,  and  Charley,  with 
a  laugh,  at  once  proposed  a  double  murder. 

"Nay!"  Willi  had  cried.  "Thou'rt  not  serious!" 

To  which  Charley  had  replied,  "  Twould  be  quite  easy.  Peter  could  go 
down  to  the  end  of  the  path  that  runs  through  the  woods  behind  the  house, 
and  hide  himself  in  the  junipers  where  you  were  wont  to  swive  Miss  Katy 
in  the  old  days.  Then  Willi  can  send  Katy  down  there-  on  some  pretext, 
whereupon  Peter  leaps  upon  her  and  kills  her.  In  the  meanwhile,  'twill 
be  simple  for  Willi  to  murther  old  Wilhelm  alone  in  the  house.  Do't  with 
a  knife  or  tomahawk,  and  blame  the  Indians  for't." 

Willi  had  applauded  the  plan  at  once,  but  Peter,  though  he  expressed 
his  readiness  to  scalp  Kate,  was  less  enthusiastic  on  the  matter  of  parricide, 
"A  common  whore  is  no  great  loss,  but  can  we  not  leave  Father  to  die 
naturally,  or  from  grief?  He  is  old,  and  shan't  stand  long  'twixt  us  and 
wealth." 

Charley  Mattassin  had  then  replied,  "Do  as  you  wish,  'tis  your  affair; 
but  methinks  you'll  be  no  sooner  rid  of  Kate  than  he  will  wed  the  next 
wench  with  art  enough  to  fool  him." 

"Aye,"  Willi  had  agreed.  "Let's  kill  him  now.  He  hath  no  love  for  us." 

At  length  Peter  was  obliged  to  overcome  his  reluctance,  and  there  being 
no  reason  for  delay,  he  left  the  drinking-bout  to  take  up  his  station  at  the 
end  of  the  path,  carrying  with  him  his  hunting  knife.  But  scarcely  had  he 
gone  before  Willi,  who  was  the  cleverer  of  the  two,  began  to  question 
the  division  of  responsibility. 

"  ?Tis  nowise  fair,"  he  complained  to  Charley,  "that  I  be  given  the  taste- 
less task  of  murthering  father,  whilst  Peter  hath  Katy  to  himself  in  the 
junipers  and  may  do  his  list  with  her  ere  he  doth  her  in."  And  the  longer 
he  reflected,  the  less  equitable  seemed  his  lot,  until  at  last,  forgetting  who 
had  proposed  the  scheme,  he  commenced  to  blame  Peter  for  it. 

"Check  your  wrath,"  Charley  had  urged  him  then.  "  Twas  I  that  planned 
it  thus,  and  for  a  purpose:  send  Katy  down  to  Peter,  and  then  tell  Wilhelm 
they  are  swiving  in  the  junipers.  Two  of  the  three  will  soon  be  dead,  and 
you've  only  to  kill  the  third  to  have  the  whole  estate  yourself." 

It  did  not  take  long  for  Willi  to  see  the  merits  of  this  shocking  plan, 
and  when  a  cursory  search  failed  to  discover  his  stepmother,  he  readily 
acted  on  the  Indian's  next  advice:  "Tell  Wilhelm  anyhow,  and  I  shall  run 
to  warn  Peter  that  his  father  comes  to  shoot  him.  The  result  will  be  the 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  441  ] 

same,  and  in  the  meantime  you  can  search  farther  for  the  whore  and  take 
your  pleasure  on  her." 

Willi  went  off  beaming  towards  his  father's  accounting  room  to  carry 
out  the  scheme,  and  Charley  took  a  short  cut  through  the  marshes  to 
the  juniper  grove  where  Peter  waited,  knife  in  hand.  But  so  far  from  warn- 
ing him  of  Wilhelm's  approach,  the  Indian  said  "Mistress  Kate  is  hurrying 
hither  and  never  looked  more  fetching.  Since  you  mean  to  kill  her  in  any 
case,  why  not  have  your  will  of  her  first?  The  privy  dream  of  every  man 
is  rape,  for  there  is  no  pleasure  like  it  in  the  earth.  Drop  your  breeches, 
man,  and  stand  in  ambuscado." 

"Peter  needed  no  urging/'  Mary  Mungummory  laughed,  "For  dull  wits 
do  not  mean  dull  desires,  and  a  clotpoll  in  the  classroom  may  be  brilliant 
in  the  bed:  even  as  Charley  left,  the  boy  lowered  his  breeches,  took  cod 
in  hand,  and  waited  for  his  victim  to  arrive." 

"But  where  was  your  sister  whilst  all  these  machinations  were  in  progress?" 
Ebenezer  demanded.  "Why  did  the  salvage  plot  against  her,  and  why 
could  Willi  not  find  her?" 

Mary  clucked  her  tongue.  "She  was  neither  innocent  nor  idle,  ye  may 
be  sure."  In  fact,  Mary  explained,  nothing  of  what  had  transpired  was 
news  to  Kate,  for  it  was  she,  and  not  Charley,  who  had  conceived  the 
scheme  to  begin  with.  She  had  told  him  in  detail  of  her  fear  of  the  brothers 
and  of  her  life  with  Wilhelm— how,  unable  to  aspire  to  natural  intercourse, 
he  forced  her  to  dance  for  him  lasciviously  every  night,  not  in  his  chamber 
but  in  the  accounting  room,  amid  his  tobacco-notes  and  business  papers, 
where  the  -salt  of  inconguity  might  season  his  feeble  pleasure— and  she  had 
pledged  to  marry  Charley  and  make  him  master  of  the  Tick  estate  if 
he  would  aid  her  in  disposing  of  the  other  legatees.  Their  trysting-place 
was  a  thick  clump  of  myrtles  some  distance  down  the  path  behind  the 
house:  hither  it  was  that  she  would  slip  away  any  hour  of  the  day  or 
night  when  she  heard  her  lover's  signal— a  high-pitched  yelp  like  that 
of  a  fox  or  an  Indian  cur;  here  it  was  that  she  would  linger  while  he 
caroused  with  the  brothers,  and  wait  for  him  to  find  pretext  to  join  her; 
and  here  it  was  she  lay  this  fateful  evening,  and  watched  the  scheme 
unfold.  She  had  seen  Peter,  knife  in  hand,  go  down  the  path  to  the  juni- 
per trees,  not  far  distant,  and  had  even  heard  Charley  urging  him  to 
rape  before  he  slew;  it  was  scarcely  necessary  for  Charley  to  tell  her, 
when  immediately  afterwards  he  joined  her  in  the  myrtles,  that  their 
conspiracy  was  successfully  under  way.  Moreover,  their  hopes  were  addi- 
tionally confirmed  a  few  moments  later,  for  Wilhelm  himself  came  stalking 


[442]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

down  the  path,  a  pistol  in  each  hand  and  towering  anger  in  his  face,  clearly 
in  response  to  Willf  s  announcement.  And  when  he  met  the  edifying  spec- 
tacle of  his  trouserless  son,  they  could  hear  quite  clearly  the  string  of  Dutch 
curses  he  let  fly. 

"Wait!"  they  heard  Peter  cry.  "For  the  love  o'  God,  don't  shoot!" 

And  Wilhelm,  to  their  disappointment,  instead  of  firing  at  once,  asked 
"Where  is  your  mother,  Peter?" 

"I  do  not  know!" 

"Why  were  ye  standing  so,"  Wilhelm  had  demanded  then,  "with  your 
breeches  in  one  hand  and  your  shame  in  the  'Other?" 

And  it  must  have  been  that  Wilhelm  had  come  closer  as  he  spoke,  and 
threatened  with  the  pistols,  for  Peter  grunted  and  then  replied,  "There, 
ye  see,  'twas  but  to  ease  nature  I  came  hitherl" 

"Willi  told  me  ye  were  swiving  Katy  from  stump  to  stump,"  Wilhelm 
had  declared. 

"Ah,"  said  Peter.  "But  I  am  not  doing  what  Willi  said,  as  any  wight 
can  see." 

"Then  why  should  Willi  send  me  running  hither?"  his  father  wanted 
to  know,  and  Peter  asserted  that  it  was  not  he  but  Willi,  who  had  designs 
on  Kate  and  had  sent  Wilhelm  out  of  the  house  in  order  to  catch  her 
alone  and  force  her  virtue. 

"No!"  had  cried  Wilhelm. 

"Aye,"  Peter  insisted. 

"Ach/"  said  Wilhelm,  and  came  crashing  back  along  the  path. 

All  this  the  two  conspirators  had  clearly  heard,  and  near  the  end  of  it, 
from  the  direction  of  the  house,  had  come  the  voice  of  Willi  calling  Katy's 
name. 

"What  will  happen  now?"  Katy  had  whispered  to  Charley. 

"  'Tis  time  for  Willi  to  give  o'er  his  search  for  you,"  the  Indian  replied. 
"If  all  goes  well  he'll  come  down  the  path  to  murther  whoever^  left  alive, 
and  Peter  will  come  up  to  do  the  same." 

He  could  explain  no  more,  for  by  that  time  old  Wilhelm  had  come  up 
as  far  as  the  clump  of  myrtles,  brandishing  his  pistols  and  puffing  with 
fatigue.  In  fact,  such  toll  had  his  emotions  and  exertions  taken  on  him, 
he  suddenly  stopped  still,  clutched  his  heart,  and  satxlown  on  a  gum  stump 
in  the  middle  of  the  path. 

"  Tis  his  foolish  heart  hath  failed  him!"  Katy  whispered,  and  Charley 
clapped  his  hand  over  her  mouth  just  in  time  to  prevent  their  discovery 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [4431 

by  Willi,  who  at  that  moment  came  running  down  the  path  with  his 
musket  at  the  ready. 

"What  ails  you?"  he  asked  his  father. 

Wilhelm  clutched  his  son's  arm  and  shook  his  head  at  the  cynical  tone 
of  the  question.  Great  pain  was  on  his  face,  and  he  spoke  with  difficulty. 

"Why  did  you  send  me  where  no  trouble  was?  Your  brother  was  only 
pissing,  nothing  more." 

"Fogh,"  sneered  Willi.  "Why  should  he  walk  a  mile  into  the  woods  to 
piss,  when  for  years  he  hath  been  doing  it  in  the  rosebush?" 

"You  send  me  to  kill  Peter,  and  Peter  to  kill  you,"  Wilhelm  went  on, 
"and  both  have  foul  designs  on  my  sweet  Kate.  Either  way  I  lose  a  son, 
and  belike  my  wife  as  well!" 

"She  is  a  common  whore,  and  you  a  wretched  old  fool,"  Willi  declared, 
and  without  more  ado  let  go  a  musket  blast  point-blank  at  his  father's 
chest. 

"Now  I  shall  do  the  same  to  him,"  Katy  had  whispered  then,  and  fetching 
a  loaded  pistol  from  her  skirts,  had  taken  aim  at  Willi.  But  again  Charley 
had  restrained  her,  for  the  sound  of  the  shot  had  brought  Peter  hurry- 
ing up  from  the  junipers,  and  before  Willi  could  get  powder  and  ball 
into  the  gun,  his  brother  was  upon  him  with  the  knife.  Over  and  over  they 
rolled  in  the  dirt,  and  in  a  minute  Willi  lay  beside  his  father  with  an  open 
throat. 

Peter  rose  and  wiped  the  knife  blade  on  a  leaf.  "So,"  he  said,  and 
said  no  more,  for  Katy  shot  him  in  the  chest  where  he  stood. 

"God  be  praised!"  she  had  cried  aloud  when  it  was  done.  "I  am  free  of 
the  knaves  at  last,  and  a  wealthy  widow!"  And  so  moved  was  she  by  the 
spectacle  of  so  many  dead  Dutchmen  in  the  path,  she  would  not  leave 
without  mounting  the  gum  stump  about  which  they  lay  and  dancing,  for 
Charley's  benefit,  the  same  dance  that  had  served  poor  Wilhelm  for 
love-making. 

"So  now  you  have  your  heart's  desire,"  Charley  had  observed. 

"And  so  shall  you,"  Kate  had  called  back  from  the  stump,  "for  ye  shall 
warm  the  Mynheer's  bed  with  me  anon.  Come  hither,  now,  and  celebrate 
our  wealth!" 

And  not  content  to  profane  the  dead  by  her  lewd  dance  alone,  Katy 
had  insisted  that  they  do  then  and  there  on  the  gum  stump  what  they 
were  wont  to  do  secluded  in  the  myrtles,  and  had  whooped  and  yelped 
throughout,  Indian-fashion  .  .  . 


[4441 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 


"Stay!"  Ebenezer  cried.  "You  do  not  mean  to  tell  me " 

"No  less/'  Mary  declared.  "What' s  more,  he  asked  her  to  cry  their  secret 
signal-cry  when  the  time  came,  and  he  did.  a  thing  that  he  and  I  had 
learnt  together— a  wondrous  thing  we'd  vowed  no  other  soul  should  ever 

share  .  .  ." 

WI  say "  the  poet  protested,  much  embarrassed,  but  Mary  raised  her 

hand  for  silence. 

"And  when  she  instantly  let  out  the  signal  cry,  he  fetched  up  his 

knife  .  .  r 

"Nay!  He  murthered  her  then  and  there?" 

Mary  nodded.  "I'll  say  no  more  than  this,  that  what  he  did  is  a  famous 
trick  of  soldiers  the  world  over,  Christian  and  heathen  alike,  with  women 
of  the  enemy." 

"I  shall  be  ill  if  you  say  more,"  warned  Ebenezer. 

"There  is  no  more  to  tell,"  said  Mary.  "He  walked  off  and  left  'em 
where  they  lay,  all  four  together,  and  for  want  of  heirs  the  estate  passed 
over  to  the  Crown.  The  joke  oft  was,  as  Charley  had  known  from  the 
first  and  not  told  either  Kate  or  the  brothers,  'twas  not  till  the  next  sitting 
of  the  Maryland  Council  that  old  Wilhelm's  plea  for  denizenship  was  due 
to  be  approved." 

"I  do  not  grasp  the  point." 

"That  means  he  died  a  Dutchman,"  Mary  explained,  "and  aliens  can't 
will  property  in  the  first  place:  the  Crown  would  have  got  the  estate  in  any 
event!"  She  laughed  and  got  up  off  the  stable  floor.  "'Twas  his  huge  en- 
joyment of  this  jest  that  undid  Charley.  That  same  night,  in  all  innocence, 
I  proposed  to  him  we  do  our  little  secret,  and  he  took  such  a  fit  o'  laughing 
in  the  midst  oft  that  I  wept  like  a  bride  for  the  first  time  in  my  life! 
He  vowed  he  was  sorry,  and  by  way  of  apology  told  the  entire  story 
just  as  you've  heard  it  from  me,  laughing  all  the  while,  nor  left  out  a  single 
small  detail  oft.  He  knew  me  inside  out,  did  my  sweet  salvage:  he  knew 
'twould  tear  my  heart  to  hear  he'd  played  me  false,,  and  doubly  so  to  hear 
'twas  Kate  he'd  done  it  with,  and  triply  so  to  hear  he'd  done  her  to  death; 
yet  he  knew  as  well  I  must  and  would  forgive  him  all— nay,  he  knew  at 
bottom  I  would  love  him  the  more  for't  when  the  shock  had  passed,  and 
he  was  right!  What  he  didn't  know,  by  a  hundredth  part,  was  how  I  prized 
our  little  trick,  not  alone  that  we'd  discovered  it  together,  but  because  'twixt 
a  man  so  ill  endowed  with  manly  parts  and  a  woman  too  versed  in  men  to  be 
impressed  by  any  such  endowment,  this  trick  of  ours  was  the  entire  world  o' 
love.  'Twas  as  if  you  and  your  mistress  together  had  invented  swiving,  that 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  445  ] 

no  soul  else  on  earth  had  ever  thought  of:  think  how  ye'd  feel  then  if  she  told 
ye,  not  that  she'd  kissed  another  man,  but  that  she'd  taught  him  all  that 
glorious  secret  ye'd  shared!" 

"Really,"  Ebenezer  said,  "I " 

"Ah,  yes.  Thou'rt  still  a  virgin  and  can't  know."  Mary  sighed.  'Then 
bear't  in  mind,  and  one  day  ye'll  see  it  clear  enough.  In  the  meanwhile  'tis 
enough  to  say,  my  Charley's  error  was  to  tell  me  he'd  shared  that  thing  with 
Katy.  In  his  eyes  it  made  the  jest  so  much  the  funnier;  in  mine— i'God,  I 
could  not  speak,  or  weep  another  tear!  I  climbed  from  the  wagon  and  ran 
down  the  road,  nor  stopped  till  I  reached  Cambridge,  a  day  and  a  half  later, 
and  told  the  Sheriff  that  the  Tick  family  was  murthered,  and  their  murtherer 
was  Charley  Mattassin!" 

Again  the  tears  coursed  down  her  cheeks. 

"They  found  him  waiting  in  the  wagon,  little  dreaming  what  I'd  done, 
and  packed  him  off  to  jail.  I  never  spoke  to  him  after  that,  but  they 
say  he  took  it  as  a  farther  joke  that  I  had  played  him  false,  and  laughed 
whene'er  he  thought  oft.  They  say  he  still  was  chuckling  when  they  led 
him  to  the  gallows,  and  I  saw  myself  that  when  the  noose  snapped  tight 
two  wondrous  things  occurred.  The  first  I  told  ye  at  the  outset,  that  what 
was  small  in  life  grew  uncommon  large  in  death,  as  sometimes  happens; 
the  other  is  that  he  died  with  that  monstrous  laugh  upon  his  face,  and 
bore  it  to  the  gravel  That  is  the  tale." 

"I  ne'er  have  heard  its  like,"  swore  Ebenezer.  "Tis  pathetic  and  te* 
rible  at  once,  and  I  am.  still  astonished  by  the  likeness  of  this  Indian  to 
my  friend  and  former  tutor!  I  would  venture  to  say  that  if  your  Charley 
had  been  born  an  Englishman  he  could  play  this  world  like  a  harpsichord, 
as  doth  my  friend,  and  that  if  my  friend  had  been  born  a  salvage  Indian, 
he  too  could  die  with  just  that  bitter  laugh."  He  shook  his  head.  "What  is 
behind  it?  Your  Charley  and  my  friend,  each  in  his  way,  came  rootless  to 
the  world  we  know;  each  hath  a  wondrous  gift  for  grasping  it,  e'en  a  lust 
for't,  and  manipulates  its  folk  like  puppeteers.  My  friend  hath  not  yet 
laughed  after  Charley's  fashion,  and  God  grant  he  never  shall,  but  the  po- 
tential for't  is  there;  I  see  it  plainly  from  your  tale.  Despite  his  fearsome 
joy  in  worldly  lore,  his  passions  and  bold  energies,  he  is  much  given  to 
sighs  and  fits  of  sullenness;  a  certain  shrug  he  hath,  and  a  particular  mirth- 
less smile.  Tis  as  though  like  Jacob  he  grapples  yet  with  some  dark  angel 
in  the  desert,  the  which  had  got  the  better  of  your  Charley;  and  'tis  no  angel 
of  the  Lord  whose  votaries  have  this  laugh  for  their  stigma,  do  you  think?" 

Mary  mused  at  the  stable  door:  "Twas  the  whole  o'  God's  creation 


[446]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Charley  laughed  at!  I  can  hear  him  laugh  at  Kate  when  he  did  our  thing 
to  her,  and  again  when  she  barked,  and  he  put  her  to  the  knife;  when 
I  ride  about  my  rounds  or  eat  a  meal,  I  hear  that  laugh,  and  it  colors  the 
world  I  look  at,  and  sours  the  food  in  my  belly!  Naught  remains  o-  Wilhelm 
Tick  but  his  wretched  ghost,  that  some  say  wanders  nightly  down  Tick's 
Path;  and  naught  remains  o'  Charley  save  that  laugh.  The  while  I  told  this 
tale  to  you  Fve  heard  it.  Each  night  I  see  him  laughing  in  the  hangman's 
noose,  and  must  needs  liquor  myself  to  sleep;  yet  all  in  vain,  for  sleep  is 
but  a  hot  dream  of  my  Charley,  and  I  wake  with  his  voiceless  laugh 
still  in  my  ears.  Ah  God!  Ah  God!" 

She  could  speak  no  more  for  misery.  Ebenezer  accompanied  her  out 
to  her  wagon  and  helped  her  up  to  the  seat,  thanking  her  once  more  for 
her  generosity  and  for  telling  him  the  tale. 

"  'Twas  curiosity  alone  that  pricked  my  interest/'  he  remarked  with  a 
rueful  smile.  "I  took  an  interest  in  your  Charley  when  first  I  heard  of  him 
from  Father  Smith  in  Talbot,  and  could  not  have  said  wherefore;  but  this 
tale  of  yours  hath  touched  me  in  unexpected  ways,  as  oft  good  stories  will." 

Mary  picked  up  the  reins  and  took  her  whip  in  hand.  'Then  ye  must 
pray  'twill  touch  ye  no  farther,  Master  Laureate,  for  as  yet  thou'rt  still  an 
audience  to  that  laugh." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

She  leaned  toward  him,  her  great  face  puffed  and  creased  with  mirth, 
and  answered  in  a  husky  whisper:  "Yesterday  at  court,  when  ye  keelhauled 
poor  Ben  Spurdance  and  signed  your  whole  plantation  o'er  to  that  devil 
William  Smith " 

Ebenezer  winced  at  the  memory.  "FGod,  then  you  were  there  to  see 
my  folly?" 

"I  was  there.  What's  more,  Cooke's  Point  was  erst  a  station  on  my  route: 
Ben  Spurdance  is  an  old  and  honest  friend  and  client  o'  mine,  and  did 
your  father  as  good  a  job  as  any  overseer  could.  I  had  as  great  a  wish  as 
Ben  to  see  Bill  Smith  undone  .  .  ." 

The  Laureate  was  aghast.  "You  mean  you  saw  what  I  was  doing  and 
knew  'twas  done  in  ignorance?  Dear  Heav'n,  why  did  you  not  cry  out, 
or  stay  me  ere  I  signed  Smith's  wretched  paper?" 

"I  saw  the  thing  coming  the  instant  ye  cried  out  who  ye  are,"  Mary  re- 
plied. "I  saw  poor  Ben  grow  pale  at  your  speech,  and  the  knave  Bill  Smith 
commence  to  gloat  and  rub  his  hands.  I  could  have  checked  your  folly  in 
a  moment." 

"Withal,  I  heard  no  frenzied  warnings,"  Ebenezer  said  bitterly,  "from 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  447  ] 

you  or  anyone  else  save  Spurdance,  his  trollop  of  a  witness,  and  my  friend 
Henry— I  mean  Timothy  Mitchell,  that  all  had  other  reasons  for  alarm. 
The  rest  of  the  crowd  only  whispered  among  themselves,  and  I  even  heard 
some  heartless  devil  laugh "  He  checked  himself  and  frowned  incredu- 
lously at  his  benefactor.  "Surely  'twas  not  you!" 

"  'Twas  my  ruin  as  well  as  yours  I  laughed  at,  as  Tim  Mitchell  might 
explain  if  ye  should  ask  him.  'Tis  a  disease,  little  poet,  like  pox  or  clapl 
Where  Charley  took  it,  God  only  knows,  but  yesterday  showed  me,  for 
the  first  time,  I've  caught  it  from  him!"  She  snapped  the  reins  to  start 
her  horse,  and  chuckled  unpleasantly.  "Stay  virgin  if  ye  can,  lad;  take 
your  maidenhead  to  the  tomb,  and  haply  ye  shan't  ever  be  infected!  Hup 
there!"  She  whipped  up  the  horse  with  spirit  and  drove  away,  her  head 
flung  back  in  mute  hilarity. 


30:    HAVING  AGREED  THAT  NAUGHT  IS  IN  MEN  SAVE 
PERFIDY,  THOUGH  NOT  NECESSARILY  THAT  JUS  EST 
ID  QUOD  CLIENS  FECIT,  THE  LAUREATE  AT  LAST  LAYS 
EYES  ON  HIS  ESTATE 


MUCH  MOVED  AND  DISCONCERTED,  EBENZER  STOOD  FOR  SOME  MOMENTS 

in  the  courtyard  and  endeavored  vainly  to  compose  himself  before  entering 
the  inn.  Disturbing  enough  had  been  the  insight  into  Burlingame  afforded 
him  by  the  tale  of  Mynheer  Tick:  this  final  disclosure  was  almost  beyond 
assimilation! 

"I  must  seek  Henry  out  at  once,"  he  resolved,  "despite  what  he  hath  said 
of  himself  and  Anna." 

When  he  recalled  Burlingame's  taunting  confessions  of  the  night  past, 
his  skin  broke  into  heavy  perspiration,  his  legs  gave  way,  and  he  was  obliged 
to  sit  for  a  time  in  the  dust  with  chattering  teeth.  In  addition  he  took  a 
short  fit  of  sneezing,  for  it  was  not  wholly  perturbation  that  afflicted  him: 
whether  as  a  result  of  the  "seasoning"  or  some  other  cause,  he  very  definitely 
was  feverish,  and  his  night  in  the  corncrib  had  given  him  a  cold  as  well. 
Many  hours  had  passed  since  his  last  meal,  yet  he  had  no  'appetite  for 
breakfast,  and  when  he  got  to  his  feet  in  order  to  seek  out  Burlingame  and 
lodge  a  complaint  with  the  innkeeper  regarding  the  theft,  of  his  clothes, 
the  ground  swayed  under  him,  and  his  head  pounded 


[448]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

<4Yet  I  must  find  him,  for  I  have  nor  money  nor  direction." 

He  entered  the  inn  and,  oblivious  to  the  stares  his  unusual  appearance 
drew,  went  straight  to  the  barman— not  the  same  who  had  served  him  on 
the  previous  evening. 

"By  Heav'n!"  he  cried.  "Tis  the  end  of  religion,  when  a  man  cannot 
sleep  safely  e'en  in  a  corncrib!  Is't  a  den  of  thieves  you  keep?  Shall  the  Lord 
Proprietor  leam  that  such  crimes  go  unredressed  in  the  inns  of  his 
province?" 

"Haul  in  thy  sheets,  lad,"  the  barman  said.  "  'Tis  not  wise  to  go  on  so  of 
Lords  Proprietors  in  these  times." 

Ebenezer  scowled  with  embarrassment:  in  his  dizziness  he  had  forgot- 
ten, as  he  was  increasingly  wont  to  do,  that  Lord  Baltimore  had  no 
authority  in  the  Province  and  that  he  himself  had  never  met  that  gentleman. 

"Some  wretch  hath  filched  my  clothes,"  he  grumbled.  The  other  patrons 
at  the  bar  laughed— among  them  a  plump,  swarthy  little  man  in  a  black 
suit  who  looked  familiar. 

"Ah  well,"  the  barman  said,  "that's  not  uncommon.  Belike  some  wag 
threw  your  clothes  in  the  fire  for  a  joke,  or  took  'em  to  replace  his  own  as 
was  burnt.  No  hurt  intended." 

"As  a  joke!  Marry,  but  you  scoundrels  have  a  nice  wit!" 

"If  t  gripe  your  bowels  so,  I'll  not  charge  ye  for  last  night's  lodging.  Fair 
enough?" 

"You'd  charge  a  man  money  to  sleep  in  that  verminous  rat's  nest?  In 
sooth  you  shan't  charge  me!  You'll  return  me  my  clothes  or  replace  'em, 
and  that  at  once,  or  laureateship  be  damned,  all  of  Maryland  shall  feel  the 
sting  of  my  rhymes!" 

The  barman's  expression  changed:  he  regarded  Ebenezer  with  new  in- 
terest. "Thou'rt  Mister  Cooke,  then,  the  Laureate  of  Maryland?" 

"No  other  soul,"  Ebenezer  said. 

"The  same  that  signed  his  property  away?"  He  glanced  at  the  black- 
suited  man,  who  nodded  confirmation. 

"I  am  that  man,"  said  Ebenezer  stiffly,  "and  methinks  you  should  repair 
my  loss  out  of  pity,  if  no  other  sentiment  moves  you." 

"That  I'd  do,  sir,"  the  barman  said,  "but  that  such  charity  would  lead  me 
to  the  almshouse  in  a  fortnight.  Howbeit,  if  thou'rt  the  Laureate  of  Mary- 
land I  have  a  message  for  ye,  from  Timothy  Mitchell." 

"From  Timothy?  Where  is  he?  What  doth  he  say?" 

The  barman  fished  a  folded  scrap  of  paper  from  his  breeches.  "He  left  us 
late  last  night,  as  I  understand  it,  but  writ  this  poem  for  ye  to  read." 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [4491 

"Poem?"  Ebenezer  snatched  the  paper.  "I  almost  fear  to  read  it!" 
But  he  unfolded  the  paper  as  fast  as  he  could  and  read  with  consterna- 
tion: 

To  Ebenezer  Cooke,  Gentleman, 
Poet  &  Laureate  of  the  Province  of  Maryland 

When  from  the  Com  thou  hiest  thy  Bum, 
And  to  the  Tavern  haply  come, 
All  stiff  from  chill  Octobers  Breezes, 
Full  of  Sniffs,  and  Snots,  and  Sneezes, 
Go  not  with  many  a  Sigh  and  Groan 
To  seek  out  Colt  or  fragrant  Roan; 
For  Roan,  that  seldom  usrd  to  falter, 
Hath  fairly  this  time  slipt  her  Halter, 
And  Colts  gone  with  her,  and  I  as  well, 
Leaving  thee  to  fry  in  Hell 
With  all  thy  Poses  and  Buffoonery. 
Perchance  this  Piece  of  fine  Poltroonery 
Will  teach  thee  that  with  mortal  Men 
'Tis  Folly  to  call  any  Friend; 
For  Friendship's  but  a  fragile  Farce 
Twixt  Man  and  Man.  So  kiss  my  Arse, 
Poor  Ebenezer,  foolish  Bard — 
And  henceforth  ne'er  relax  thy  GuardI 

Timothy  Mitchell,  E«<? 

For  some  moments  after  reading  Henry's  parting  insults,  Ebenezer  was 
dumb  struck.  His  head  felt  near  to  bursting,  and  his  eyes  watered. 

"Friendship  a  farce  'twixt  man  and  man!"  he  cried  at  last.  "  'Twixt  thee 
and  me,  Henry,  let  us  say,  for  'twixt  me  and  thee  it  was  no  farce!  Ah  God, 
deliver  me  from  such  another  friend!" 

The  swarthy  fellow  in  the  black  suit  observed  these  lamentations  with 
amusement  and  said,  "Bad  news  is't,  Mister  Cooke?" 

"Bad  news  indeed!"  the  Laureate  groaned.  "Yesterday  my  whole  estate; 
today  my  clothes,  my  horse,  and  my  friend  lost  in  a  single  stroke!  I  see 
naught  for't  but  the  pistol."  Despite  his  anguish,  he  suddenly  recognized 
the  man  as  the  advocate  who  had  pled  for  William  Smith  in  court. 

"By  Blaise's  wool  comb,  'tis  a  wicked  world,"  the  fellow  observed. 

"Thou'rt  no  stranger  to  its  evils,  methinks!"  the  poet  said. 

"Ah  now,  take  no  offense  at  me,  friend:  St.  Windoline's  crook,  'twas 
yourself  that  worked  your  ruin,  not  I!  I  merely  labored  for  the  interests  of 
my  client,  as  every  advocate  must.  Sowter's  my  name— Richard  Sowter, 
from  down  the  county.  What  I  mean,,  sir,  your  advocate's  a  most  pragmatical 


I  45°]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

wight,  that  looks  for  justice  no  farther  than  his  client's  deeds.  He  tweaks 
Justinian's  beard  and  declares  that  jus  est  id  quod  cliens  fecit.  Besides,  the 
law's  but  one  amongst  my  interests.  Will  ye  take  an  ale  with  me?" 

"I  thank  you/'  Ebenezer  sighed,  but  declined  on  the  grounds  that  his 
last  night's  liquor  was  still  taking  its  toll  on  his  head.  "Forgive  my  rudeness, 
sir:  I  am  most  distraught  and  desperate." 

"As  well  ye  might  be,  by  St.  Agatha's  butchered  bosoms!  Tis  a  wicked 
world,  and  rare  ye  find  ,some  good  in't." 

"  'Tis  a  wicked  province;  that  I'll  grant." 

"Why,"  Sowter  went  on,  "  'twas  just  last  month,  or  the  one  before,  a 
young  sprat  came  to  see  me,  young  fellow  from  down-county,  he  was,  came 
into  the  smithy  where  my  office  is— I  run  a  smithy  on  the  side,,  ye  know- 
came  in  and  says  to  me,  'Mr.  Sowter/  he  says,  1  need  a  lawyer/  'St. 
Huldrick's  crab  lice!'  says  I:  'What  have  ye  done  to  need  a  lawyer?'  'Mr. 
Sowter/  he  says,  'I  am  a  young  fool,  that  I  am/  he  says.  "I  have  lived  the 
spendthrift  life,  have  I,  and  got  myself  in  debt/  'Ah  well/  says  I,  'by  Giles's 
hollow  purse,  I  am  no  money-lender,  son/  'Nay,  sir/  says  he,  'the  fact 
oft  is,  my  creditors  were  pressing  hard,  and  I  feared  'twas  the  pillory  for 
me,  so  what  did  I  do?  I  hied  me  to  Morris  Boon,  the  usuring  son  o'  Sodom/ 
'Peter's  fingers,  boy/  says  I,  'Ye  did  not!'  'I  did/  says  he:  'I  went  to  Morris 
Boon  and  I  says,  Morris,  I  need  money,  I  says.  So  Morris  lent  me  on  his 
usual  terms:  that  directly  my  debts  are  paid  I  must  surrender  me  to  his 
beasty  pleasures/  Thou'rt  a  Mathurin's  fool!'  cries  I.  'That  I  am/  says  the 
lad.  'Now  I've  settled  all  my  debts,  and  Morris  is  waiting  his  pleasure/  'Son/ 
I  says  then,,  'pray  to  St.  Gildas,  for  I  cannot  aid  ye/  'Ye  must/  says  he.  'I 
have  faith  in  ye/  'It  wants  more  than  faith/  says  I.  'I  have  more  than  faith/ 
says  he. -'I've  wagered  money  on  ye/  And  so  I  asked  him,  how  was  that? 
And  he  replied,  'I  wagered  old  Morris  ye'd  get  me  out  o'  my  pickle/  'St. 
Dymphna  protect  ye/  says  I.  'What  did  ye  wager?'  'If  ye  get  me  fairly  out,' 
says  he,  'Morris  pays  me  again  what  he  loaned  me  before,  and  'tis  yours 
for  saving  me.  If  not,  why  then  Morris  vows  he'll  ravish  the  twain  of  us 
from  stump  to  stopgap/  Wretch!'  says  I.  'Had  ye  to  fetch  me  thus  into  thy 
unclean  bargain?' 

"But  there  was  no  help  fort/'  Sowter  sighed.  "On  the  morrow  the  lad 
comes  back,  with  Morris  the  usurer  hard  upon  his  heels.  'Preserve  me!'  says 
the  boy.  'Preserve  thyself/  says  Morris,  and  eyes  me  up  and  down.  'I  want 
the  payment  we  agreed  upon/  But  I'd  not  been  idle  since  the  day  before, 
and  so  I  said,  'Hold  on,  sir,  by  Appolonia's  eyeteeth!  Rein  your  horse!  What 
sum  was't  ye  lent  this  idler  here?'  'Twelve  hundredweight  o'  sot-weed/  says 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  451  ] 

Morris.  'And  for  what  purpose?'  To  pay  his  debts/  says  Morris.  'And  under 
what  conditions?'  'That  his  debts  once  clear,  lie's  mine  whene'er  I  fancy 
him  this  month.'  Well,  then,'  says  I  to  the  lad,  that  was  like  to  beshit  him- 
self for  fear,  'the  case  is  closed,  by  Lucy's  wick  dipper:  see  to't  ye  never  return 
him  his  twelve  hundredweight.'  'Why  is  that?'  asks  the  boy,  and  Moms  as 
well.  'Why,  Fridoline's  eyeglasses/  says  I,  'don't  yssee't?  If  ye  do  not  repay 
him,  your  debts  aren't  clear,  and  so  long  as  thou'rt  encumbered,  ye  need 
not  go  to  Morris.  The  truth  is,  while  thou'rt  in  debt  thou'rt  free!' 

"St.  Wulfgang's  gout,  sirs,  I  can  tell  ye  old  Morris  set  up  a  hollowing  at 
that,  for  I  had  swived  him  fair,  and  he's  a  man  of  his  word.  He  paid  the 
young  scamp  another  twelve  hundredweight  and  sent  him  off  with  a  curse; 
but  the  more  he  thought  oft,  the  more  my  trick  amused  him,  till  at  the 
end  we  laughed  until  we  wept.  Now  then,  by  Kentigern's  salmon,  what  was 
I  after  proving?" 

"That  naught's  in  men  save  perfidy,"  said  Ebenezer.  "Yet  the  lad  was 
not  wicked,  nor  were  you  in  saving  him." 

"Ha!  Little  ye  know,"  laughed  Sowter.  "My  actual  end  was  not  to  save 
the  lad  but  to  fox  old  Morris,  who  many  a  time  hath  had  the  better  of  me. 
As  for  the  lad,  by  Wulstan's  crozier,  he  never  paid  me,  but  took  the  tobacco- 
note  himself  and  doubtless  went  a-whoring.  There  is  small  good  in  men." 
He  sighed.  "Why,  there's  a  redemptioner  this  minute  in  my  boat " 

"No  more!"  cried  Ebenezer,  clutching  his  head  hvhis  hands.  "What  use 
have  I  for  farther  tales?  How  is't  I  listen  like  a  schoolboy  to  your  prating, 
when  I  have  reached  the  end  of  the  road?  The  pistol  now  is  all  I  crave,  to 
end  my  pain." 

"Oh  la,  St.  Roque's  hound-bitch!"  Sowter  scoffed.  "Tis  but  the  vagrant 
track  o'  life,  that  beds  ye  now  in  clover,  now  in  thistles.  Make  shift  to  bear't 
a  day  at  a  time,  and  ten  years  hence  yell  still  be  sleeping  somewhere,  and 
filling  thy  bowels  with  dinner,  and  rogering  some  wench  from  Adrian  to 
St.  Yves." 

"'Tis  light  to  advise,"  said  the  poet,  "but  this  day  itself  shall  see  me 
starve,  for  I've  naught  to  buy  food  with  and  nowhere  to  go." 

"Cooke's  Point  is  but  a  few  hours'  sail  downriver.  If  I  came  half  around 
the  world  to  find  a  place,  by  St.  Ethelbert  I'd  not  blow  out  my  brains  till 
I  laid  eyes  on't!" 

This  suggestion  greatly  surprised  Ebenezer,  "My  valet  awaits  me  there/' 
he  said  thoughtfully,  "and  my— my  betrothed  as  well,  I  hope.  Poor  Joan, 
and  loyal  Bertrand!  What  must  they  think  of  me!"  He  gripped  Sowter's 


[  452  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

aim.  "D'you  think  that  scoundrel  Smith  hath  turned  them  out?  I'll  have 
his  head  fort!" 

"There,  now,  by  Pieran's  millstone!"  Sowter  said.  "Thou'rt  angry,  and 
anger's  e'er  a  physic  for  despair.  I  know  naught  o'  these  folk  ye  speak  of, 
but  I'm  sure  they'll  meet  no  ill  reception  at  Maldeai.  Bill  Smith  hath  his 
shortcomings,  yet  he'd  ne'er  turn  out  your  guests  to  starve,  much  less  the 
Laureate  himself.  Why,  haply  your  friend  Tim  Mitchell's  there  as  well,  and 
they're  all  at  a  game  o'  ducks  and  drakes,  or  dancing  a  morns  dance!" 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head.  "Yet  e'en  this  last  small  joy  shall  be  denied 
me,  for  I've  not  the  hire  of  a  boat." 

"Why  then,  by  Gudule's  lantern,  ye  ftiust  come  with  me,"  the  lawyer 
said,  and  explained  that  while  boat  renting  in  general,  and  the  Choptank 
River  ferry  in  particular,  were  among  his  side  interests,  he  meant  to  sail  out 
to  Maiden  that  very  morning,  and  the  Laureate  was  welcome  to  come  along 
as  ballast.  "I  have  some  business  there  with  Mr.  Smith,"  he  said,  "and  must 
deliver  him  a  servant  that  I  bought  this  morning  for  a  song." 

Ebenezer  murmured  some  words  of  gratitude;  he  was,  in  fact,  scarcely 
able  to  attend  Sowter's  speech,  for  his  fever  seemed  to  mount  with  every 
passing  minute.  His  head  buzzed,  his  ears  rang,  and  when  they  left  the 
inn  and  walked  toward  the  wharf  nearby,  he  viewed  the  scene  before  him 
as  with  a  drunkard's  eyes. 

"—•most  cantankerous  wight  ye  ever  did  see,"  he  heard  Sowter  saying  as 
they  reached  the  wharf.  ."Swears  by  Gertrude's  mousetrap  he's  no  redemp- 
tioner  at  all,  but  a  servant  seller  out  o'  Talbot,  that  is  victim  of  a  monstrous 
prank." 

"I  am  not  a  well  man,"  the  Laureate  remarked.  "Really,  I  feel  not  well 
at  all." 

"I've  heard  my  share  o'  clever  stories  from  redemptioners,"  Sowter  went 
on,  "but  St.  Tom's  packthread,  if  this  one  doth  not  take  the  prize!  Why, 
would  ye  believe  it " 

"'Tis  the  seasoning,  belike,"  Ebenezer  interrupted,  though  it  could  not 
be  said  with  certainty  whether  he  was  addressing  Sowter  or  himself. 

"Ye'll  be  all  right,  with  a  day  in  bed,"  the  lawyer  said.  "What  I  was  about 
to  say— nay,  not  there:  my  boat's  that  small  sloop  yonder  by  the  post— what 
I  was  about  to  say,  this  great  lout  claims  his  name  is " 

"Tom  Tayloe!"  roared  a  voice  from  the  sloop.  "Tom  Tayloe  o'  Talbot 
County,  damn  your  eyes,  and  ye  know't  as  well  as  I,  Dick  Sowter!" 

"St.  Sebastian's  pincushion,  hear  him  ravel"  chuckled  Sowter.  "Yet  his 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  4J3  ] 

name  is  writ  on  the  indenture  for  all  to  see:  'tis  John  McEvoy,  plain  as  day, 
from  Puddledock  in  London/' 

Ebenezer  clutched  a  piling  for  support.  "  Tis  my  delirium!" 

"Aye,  St.  Pernel's  ague,  thou'rt  not  thyself/'  the  lawyer  admitted,  mis- 
understanding his  guest's  alarm. 

*Te  know  full  well  I'm  not  McEvoy!"  shouted  the  man  in  the  boat. 
"McEvoy  was  the  wretch  that  duped  mel" 

Focusing  his  eyes  on  the  sloop,  Ebenezer  saw  the  complainant  shackled 
by  one  wrist  to  the  gunwale.  His  hair  was  red,  as  was  his  beard,,  but  even 
through  the  swimming  eyes  of  fever  Ebenezer  saw  that  he  was  not  the 
John  McEvoy  he  had  feared.  He  was  too  old,  for  one  thing— in  his  forties, 
at  the  least— and  too  fat:  a  veritable  mountain  of  flesh,,  twice  the  size  of 
fat  Ben  Oliver,  he  was  quite  the  most  corpulent  human  the  poet  had  ever 
beheld. 

"That  is  not  John  McEvoy,"  he  declared,  as  Sowter  helped  him  into  the 
sloop. 

"There,  now,  ye  blackguard!"  the  prisoner  cried.  "E'en  this  skinny 
wretch  admits  it,  that  ye  doubtless  bribed  to  swear  me  false!  Thou'rt  hoist 
with  your  own  petard!"  He  turned  imploringly  to  Ebenezer.  "  Tis  a  double 
injury  I've  been  done,  sir:  this  Sowter  knows  full  well  I'm  not  McEvoy, 
but  he  got  the  papers  cheap  and  means  to  cany  out  the  fraud!" 

"Tush,"  Sowter  answered,  and  bade  his  crewmen,  of  whom  there  were 
two,  get  the  sloop  under  way.  "I'm  going  below  to  draw  up  certain  papers," 
he  said  to  Ebenezer.  "Ye  may  take  your  ease  in  the  cabin  till  we  raise 
Cooke's  Point." 

"I  beg  ye  hear  me  out,"  the  servant  pleaded.  'Te  said  already  ye  know 
I'm  not  McEvoy:  haply  ye'll  believe  this  is  unjust." 

"'Tis  no  rare  name/'  Ebenezer  murmured,  moving  toward  the  cabin. 
"I'll  own  the  John  McEvoy  I  once  knew  had  your  red  hair,  but  he  was 
slight  and  all  befreckled,  and  a  younger  man  than  I." 

"That  is  the  one!  I'Christ,  Sowter,  can  ye  go  on  now  with  your  monstrous 
trick?  This  wight  hath  drawn  the  very  likeness  of  the  man  that  sold  me!" 

"By  David's  leek,  man,"  Sowter  said  testily.  "Ye  may  file  complaint  at 
court  the  day  thou'rt  settled  on  Cooke's  Point,  for  all  o'  me.  Till  then  thou'rt 
John  McEvoy,  and  I've  bought  your  papers  honestly.  Tell  Mr.  Cooke  your 
troubles,  if  he  cares  to  hear  'em." 

With  that  he  went  below,  followed  by  the  prisoner's  curses,  but  Ebenezer, 
at  the  first  heel  of  the  vessel,  felt  more  ill  than  at  any  other  time  in  his  life 


[454]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

except  aboard  the  Poseidon,  in  the  storm  off  the  Canary  Islands,  and  was 
obliged  to  remain  in  misery  at  the  leeward  rail. 

"This  McEvoy,"  he  managed  to  say  between  emergencies.  "  Tis  quite 
impossible  he's  the  one  I  know,  for  mine's  in  London." 

"E'en  so  was  mine,  till  six  weeks  past,"  the  fat  man  said. 

"But  mine's  no  servant  seller!" 

"No  more  was  mine,  till  late  last  night:  'tis  I  that  sells  redemptioners  for 
my  living,  but  this  accursed  young  Irishman  did  me  in,  with  Sowter's  aid!" 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head.  "  Tis  unthinkable!"  Yet  he  knew,  or  believed, 
that  Joan  Toast  had  come  to  Maryland— for  reasons  he  could  only  vaguely 
guess  at— and  also  that  at  the  time  of  his  own  departure  from  London, 
John  McEvoy  had  had  no  word  of  his  mistress  for  some  days.  "Would  God 
my  head  were  clear,  so  I  might  think  on't,  what  it  means!" 

The  prisoner  interpreted  this  as  an  invitation  to  tell  his  tale,  and  so 
commenced: 

"My  name  is  not  McEvoy,  but  Thomas  Tayloe,  out  of  Oxford  in  Talbot 
County.  Every  planter  in  Talbot  knows  me " 

"Why  do  you  not  complain  in  court,  then,"  the  poet  interrupted  thickly, 
"and  call  them  in  as  witnesses?"  He  was  seated  on  the  deck,  too  ill  to  stand. 

"Not  with  Sowter  as  defendant,"  Tayloe  said.  "For  all  his  sainting  he  is 
crooked  as  the  courts,  and  besides,  the  wretches  would  lie  to  spite  me."  He 
explained  that  his  trade  was  selling  redemptioners:  poor  folk  in  England 
desirous  of  traveling  to  the  colonies  would,  in  lieu  of  boat  fare,  indenture 
themselves  to  an  enterprising  sea  captain,  who  in  turn  "redeemed"  their 
indentures  to  the  highest  bidders  in  port— a  lucrative  speculation,  since 
standard  passenger  fare  for  servants  was  only  five  pounds  sterling,  more  or 
less,  and  the  indenture-bonds  of  artisans,  unmarried  women,  and  healthy 
laborers  could  be  sold  for  three  to  five  times  that  amount.  Those  whom  it 
was  inconvenient  or  insufficiently  profitable  for  the  captain  to  sell  directly 
he  "wholesaled"  to  factors  like  Tayloe,  who  would  then  attempt  to  resell 
the  hands  to  planters  more  removed  from  the  port  of  call.  Tayloe's  own 
specialty,  it  seemed,  was  purchasing  at  an  unusually  low  price  servants  who 
were  old,  infirm,  unskilled,  troublesome,  or  otherwise  especially  difficult  for 
the  captain  to  dispose  of,  and  endeavoring  to  "retail"  them  before  the  ex- 
pense of  feeding  them  much  raised  his  small  investment. 

"  'Tis  a  thankless  job,"  he  admitted. " Were't  not  for  me  those  pinchpenny 
planters  with  their  fifty-acre  patches  would  have  no  hands  at  all,  yet  they'll 
pay  six  pounds  for  a  palsied  old  scarecrow  and  hold  me  to  account  for't  he 
is  no  Samson.  And  the  wretched  redemptioners  claim  I  starve  'em,  when 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  455  1 

they  know  full  well  I've  saved  their  worthless  lives:  they're  the  scum  o'  the 
London  docks,  the  half  of  'em,  and  were  spirited  away  drunk  by  the  captain; 
if  I  didn't  take  them  off  his  hands  in  Oxford^  he'd  sign  'em  on  as  crewmen 
for  the  voyage  home,  and  see  to't  they  fell  to  the  fishes  ere  the  ship  was 
three  days  out." 

"  Tis  a  charitable  trade  you  practice,  I'm  persuaded,"  Ebenezer  said  in 
a  dolorous  voice. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  declared,  "just  yesterday  the  Morphides  moored  off 
Oxford  with  a  troop  o'  redemptioners " 

"The  Morphides!  Not  Slye  and  Scurry's  ship?" 

"No  other,"  Tayloe  said.  "Gerrard  Slye's  the  grandest  speculator  in  the 
trade,  and  Scurry  is  his  equal.  They  are  the  only  order-captains  in  the 
Province.  Suppose  thou'rt  a  planter,  now,  and  need  you  a  stonemason  for 
four  years'  work:  ye  put  your  order  in  with  Slye  and  Scurry,  and  on  the 
next  voyage  there's  your  mason." 

"No  more:  I  grasp  the  principle!" 

"Well  then,  'twas  yesterday  the  Morphides  moored,  and  out  we  all  went 
to  bid  for  redemptioners.  They  were  fetching  'em  up  as  I  boarded,  and  the 
crew  was  passing  pots  o'  rum  for  us  buyers.  When  they  brought  this  red- 
haired  wight  on  deck  he  took  one  look  at  the  shore,  broke  away  from  the 
deckhands,  and  sprang  o'er  the  side  ere  any  man  could  stop  him.  Twas  his 
ill  luck  to  light  beside  the  Morphides' s  own  boat;  the  mate  and  three  others 
hauled  him  back  aboard  and  clapped  him  into  leg  irons  with  promise  of  a 
flogging,  and  I  knew  then  I'd  have  him  ere  the  day  was  out." 

"Poor  McEvoy!"  mumbled  the  Laureate.  "I'd  not  have  wished  him  such, 
ill  treatment." 

"Twas  his  own  doing,"  Tayloe  said.  "Would  God  they'd  let  the 
whoreson  drown,  so  I'd  not  be  shackled  here  in  his  place!"  He  sniffed  and 
spat  over  the  gunwale.  "In  any  case,  the  captains  filled  their  orders  for 
bricklayers,  cobblers,  boatwrights,  and  the  like,  and  put  up  for  bids  a  clutch 
o'  cabinetmakers  and  carpenters,  and  a  sailmaker  that  fetched  'em  twenty- 
three  pounds  sterling.  As  a  rule  they'd  have  peddled  off  the  lassies  after  that, 
but  in  this  lot  the  only  ladies  were  a  brace  o'  forty-year  spinsters  out  to 
catch  husbands,  so  instead  they  brought  their  field  hands  out,  and  bid  'em 
off  for  twelve  to  sixteen  pound.  After  the  field  hands  came  the  ladies,  and 
went  for  cooks  at  fourteen  pounds  apiece.  When  they  were  sold,,  only  four 
souls  remained,  besides  the  red-head:  three  were  too  feeble  for  field  work 
and  too  stupid  for  anything  else,  and  the  fourth  was  so  ravaged  with  the 
smallpox,  the  look  of  him  would  retch  a  goat.  Twas  a  lean  day,  for  'tis  my 


[456]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

wont  to  buy  a  dozen  or  more,  but  I  dickered  with  Slye  and  Scurry  till  at 
kst  I  got  the  five  for  twenty  pounds—that's  a  pound  a  head  less  than 
'twould've  cost  to  bring  'em  over  if  they'd  eaten  twice  a  day,  but  Slye  and 
Scurry  had  so  starved  'em  they  were  fit  for  naught  but  scarecrows,  and  had 
some  profit  e'en  at  twenty  pound. 

'They  took  the  red-head's  leg  irons  off  and  bade  him  go  peaceably  with 
me  or  take  his  cat-o'-nine-tails  on  the  spot.  By  the  time  I  got  the  five  of 
them  ashore,  roped  round  the  ankles,  and  loaded  into  the  wagon,  'twas  late 
in  tie  afternoon,  and  I  knew  'twould  be  great  good  fortune  to  sell  even 
one  by  nightfall.  Twas  my  plan  to  stop  at  the  Oxford  tavern  first,  to  try  if 
I  could  sell  to  a  drunkard  what  he'd  ne'er  buy  sober,  and  thence  move  on 
with  the  worst  o'  the  lot  to  Dorset,  inasmuch  as  servant-ships  rarely  land 
there,  and  the  planters  oft  are  short  o'  help.  The  Irishman  set  up  a  hollow- 
ing for  food,  whereat  I  smote  him  one  across  the  chops,  but  for  fear  they'd 
band  together  and  turn  on  me,  I  said  'twas  to  fetch  'em  a  meal  I  stopped  at 
the  tavern  and  they'd  eat  directly  I'd  done  seeking  masters  for  'em.  Inside 
I  found  two  gentlemen  in  their  cups,  each  boasting  to  the  company  of  his 
wealth,  and  seized  the  chance  to  argue  my  merchandise.  So  well  did  I 
feed  their  vanity,  each  was  eager  to  show  how  lightly  he  bought  servants; 
and  I  was  careful  to  bring  their  audience  out  as  well,  for  else  they'd  ne'er 
make  good  their  boasts.  The  upshot  of  it  was,  when  Mr.  Preen  bought  the 
pox-ridden  lout,  Mr.  Puff  needs  buy  two  of  the  ancient  dotards  to  save  face. 
What's  more,  they  durst  not  bat  an  eye  at  the  Jew-man's  price  I  charged, 
though  I'll  wager  it  sobered  the  twain  of  'em  on  the  instant! 

"I  hurried  off  then  with  the  other  two,  ere  my  gentlemen  had  breath  to 
regret  their  folly,  and  steered  my  course  for  Cambridge.  McEvoy  hollowed 
louder  than  before,  that  I'd  not  fed  him:  even  Slye  and  Scurry*  he  declared, 
had  given  him  bread  and  water  on  occasion— albeit  the  biscuit  was  weevfly 
and  the  water  not  fit  for  the  arrantest  heretic— and  did  I  mean  to  be  the 
death  of  him?  Another  smite  I  smote  him,  this  time  with  the  horsewhip,  and 
told  him  if  I'd  not  saved  him  he  had  been  eaten  instead  of  eating.  I  de- 
spaired o'  selling  either  that  same  night,  inasmuch  as  McEvoy,  albeit  he 
was  young  and  passing  sturdy,  was  so  plain  a  troublemaker  that  no  planter 
in  his  senses  would  give  a  shilling  for  him,  and  his  companion  was  a  crook- 
backed  little  Yorkshireman  with  a  sort  of  quinsy  and  no  teeth  in  his  head, 
who  looked  as  if  he'd  die  ere  the  spring  crop  was  up;  but  at  the  Choptank 
feny  landing  I  had  another  stroke  o'  luck.  'Twas  after  dark,  and  the  ferry 
was  out,  so  I  took  my  prizes  from  the  wagon  and  led  'em  a  small  ways 
down  the  beach,  towards  Bolingbroke  Creek,  where  we  could  do  whate'er 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

we  needed  ere  we  crossed.  We'd  gone  no  more  than  forty  yards  ere  I  heard 
a  small  commotion  just  ahead,  behind  a  fallen  tree,  and  when  I  looked  to 
see  the  cause  of  t,  I  found  Judge  Hammaker  o'  the  Cambridge  court— nor 
was  he  there  for  so  idle  a  purpose  as  ours,  but  was  playing  the  two-backed 
beast  with  a  wench  on  the  sand!  He  feigned  a  mighty  rage  at  being  dis- 
covered, and  ordered  us  away,  but  once  I  saw  who  he  was  and  called  him 
by  name,  and  asked  after  his  wife's  health,  he  grew  more  reasonable.  In 
sooth,  'twas  not  long  ere  he  confessed  he  was  in  great  need  of  a  servant, 
and  though  his  leanings  were  toward  McEvoy,  I  persuaded  him  to  take 
the  Yorkshireman  instead.  Nay,  more,  when  he  agreed  that  one  old  servant 
is  worth  two  young,  I  charged  him  twenty-four  pounds  for  Mr.  Crookback 
—near  twice  the  price  of  an  average  sturdy  field  hand.  E'en  so  he  got  off 
lightly:  the  wench  he'd  been  a-swivinghad  seemed  no  stranger  to  me,  albeit 
the  darkness  and  her  circumstances  had  kept  me  from  placing  her;  but 
once  I'd  crossed  to  Cambridge  with  McEvoy  and  heard  o'  the  day's  court 
cases  from  the  drinkers  at  the  inn,  it  struck  me  where  I'd  seen  the  tart  before. 
She  was  Ellie  Salter,  whose  husband  hath  a  tavern  in  Talbot  County— the 
same  John  Salter  who'd  got  a  change  of  venue  to  the  Cambridge  court  in 
his  suit  with  Justice  Bradnox,  and  had  won  a  judgment  from  old  Hamniaker 
that  very  afternoonl  I  scarce  need  tell  ye,  had  I  learnt  that  tale  in  time  'tis 
two  new  servants  he'd  have  bought,  and  paid  a  swingeing  sixty  pounds 
sterling  for  the  pair! 

"Yet  I'd  done  a  good  day's  work,  at  that;  I'd  sold  four  worthless  flitches 
that  same  evening,  where  I'd  hoped  to  sell  one  at  most,  and  had  above 
fifteen  hundredweight  o'  sot-weed  for  'em,  or  sixty-three  pounds  sterling, 
forty-seven  whereof  was  profit  free  and  clear.  Twas  cause  for  celebration, 
so  I  thought,  and  though  I  meant  still  to  try  amongst  the  drinkers  to  find  a 
buyer  for  McEvoy,  I  drank  a  deal  more  rum  than  is  my  wont  and  made  me 
a  trip  upstairs  to  one  o'  Mary  Mungurnmory's  girls." 

"I  knew  I'd  seen  your  face  before,"  said  Ebenezer.  "I  am  Eben  Cooke 
of  Cooke's  Point,  the  same  that  gave  his  estate  away  at  yesterday's  court.  I 
too  drank  much  last  night:  the  rum  was  at  the  good  fellows'  expense,  but 
tjie  sport*  I  fear,  at  mine." 

"I  place  ye  now!"  cried  Tayloe.  "Twas  the  change  of  dress  misled  me" 

Ebenezer  told  as  briefly  as  he  could— for  he  found  it  ever  more  difficult 
to  speak  plainly  and  coherently— how  he  had  been  robbed  of  his  clothing 
in  the  corncrib  and  rescued  by  Mary  Mungummory  herself;  and  without 
going  into  any  detail  about  McEvoy's  responsibility  for  his  presence  in  the 


[  45$  1  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Province,  he  marveled  at  the  coincidence  of  the  Irishman's  proximity 
throughout  the  evening. 

"Marry/'  said  Tayloe,  "  'twould  not  surprise  me  to  learn  'twas  he  that 
stole  your  clothes,  he's  that  treacherous!  Here  I  had  saved  him  from  Scurry 
and  Slye,  and  was  at  the  expense  of  carting  him  from  place  to  place  to  find 
him  a  master,  but  no  sooner  do  I  close  my  eyes  than  he  turns  on  me  and 
plays  me  such  a  trick  'twill  be  a  wonder  if  I'm  e'er  my  own  man  againl 
Out  from  the  tavern  I  came,  so  full  o'  rum  I  scarce  could  walk.  There  was 
no  room  at  the  inn,  so  just  as  you  made  shift  in  the  corncrib,  so  I  climbed 
up  on  the  wagon  with  McEvoy  to  sleep  out  the  balance  of  the  night,  and 
ere  I  pulled  the  blanket  over  me,  that  I  carried  for  such  occasions,  I  fetched 
out  my  knife  and  threatened  him  with  it,  to  carve  him  into  soup-beef  if  he 
kid  a  hand  on  me.  Then  I  went  to  sleep,  nor  knew  another  thing  till  dawn 
this  morning,  when  I  woke  as  Sowter's  servant!" 
"Dear  God!  How  did  that  happen?" 

Tayloe  growled  and  shook  his  head.  "The  rum  was  at  the  root  oft,"  he 
declared.  "My  error  was  to  lay  the  knife  down  by  my  head,  against  his 
leaping  me,  and  I  was  too  drunken  to  lay  it  out  of  his  reach.  I  had  him 
hog-tied,  but  in  some  wise  he  wriggled  over  without  waking  me— the 
cursed  rum  again,  that  makes  a  man  sleep  like  a  turtle  in  the  mud!— and 
cut  himself  free  with  the  knife.  Tis  a  marvel  and  astonishment  he  didn't 
murther  me  outright,  and  belike  if  I'd  so  much  as  fired  a  fart  'twould've 
been  my  end.  But  I  slept  like  a  whelp  in  the  womb,  and  in  lieu  of  killing 
me,  Mr.  McEvoy  picks  me  clean.  Out  comes  my  sixty-three  pounds— the 
most,  thank  Heav'n,  in  sot-weed  bills  that  he  dare  not  try  to  exchange  in 
Talbot  or  Dorset,  but  five  or  six  pounds  in  coin  o'  the  realm— and  then 
out  comes  the  happiest  prize  of  all:  my  half  o'  the  wretched  red-head's 
indenture-bond!  Armed  with  these,  from  what  I  gather,  he  strides  bold  as 
brass  into  the  tavern,  bribes  him  a  meal  despite  the  hour,  and  rousts  up 
Mary  Mungummory's  girls  for  a  go-round,  spending  my  silver  with  both 
his  hands.  Then  at  dawn,  whilst  I'm  still  dead  asleep  o'  the  rum,  he  crosses 
paths  with  Sowter,  that  is  known  the  length  and  breadth  o'  Maryland  for  a 
rogue  and  swindler,  and  there's  the  end  o'  me!  Had  he  struck  his  foul 
bargain  with  any  soul  else,  he'd  have  got  no  farther  than  the  calling  of  his 
name;  but  Sowter,  though  he  knows  me  well  for  all  his  feigning,  would 
swear  for  a  shilling  that  King  William  was  the  Pope.  Either  McEvoy  called 
himself  Tom  Tayloe,  and  Sowter  pretended  to  believe  him,  or  else  'twas 
Sowter's  doing  from  the  start;  in  any  case  they  made  me  out  to  be  McEvoy, 
and  for  two  pounds  sterling  Sowter  bought  the  indenture-bond.  The  first  I 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  459  ] 

knew  oft  was  when  his  bullies  came  to  fetch  me— the  same  ye  see  there  at 
the  helm  and  sheets— and  led  me  off  on  the  end  of  a  rope  and  shackled  me 
here  to  the  gunwale.  I'm  indented  to  four  years'  labor  for  the  master  o' 
Maiden,  that  I  hear  is  Sowter's  crony,  and  the  real  McEvoy,  that  hid  out 
o'  sight  till  I  was  led  off,,  hath  doubtless  flown  the  coop  with  my  cart  and 
horse.  Nor  can  I  carry  my  complaint  to  court,  for  the  bond  says  of  McEvoy 
only  that  he  hath  red  hair  and  beard  and  is  slight  of  build:  my  master  will 
argue  my  size  is  proof  o'  his  care  for  me.  What's  more  'tis  Sowter  I  must 
sue,  that  is  an  eel  to  catch  in  a  court  o'  law,  and  for  every  friend  who'd 
swear  I  am  Tom  Tayloe,  he'd  find  three  ingrates  that  will  vow  I'm  John 
McEvoy.  Yet  e'en  if  these  things  were  not  so,  my  case  would  still  be  heard 
in  the  court  at  Cambridge,  and  on  the  bench  would  be  Judge  Hammaker 
himself!  In  short,  I  go  to  Maiden  in  straits  as  sorry  as  yours— swived  by 
Richard  Sowter  from  bight  to  bitter  end!" 

Ebenezer  sighed  commiseratively.  "  Tis  a  sorry  tale  in  truth/'  he  said, 
though  in  fact  he  rather  sympathized  with  McEvoy  and  more  than  a  little 
suspected  that  the  redemption-dealer  had  got  his  due.  "Yet  withal  thou'rt 
something  better  cased  than  I,  who  have  nor  food  to  eat  nor  bed  to  sleep 
in,  neither  comfort  in  the  past,  satisfaction  in  the  present,  nor  hope  in  the 

future "  He  was  seized  with  another  fit  of  seasickness,  after  which  he 

clung  weakly  to  the  gunwale.  "I  have  not  even  health  enough  to  bewail 
my  lot." 

"Nor  time,  by  Crispin's  last,"  said  Richard  Sowter,  who  had  emerged 
from  the  sloop's  cabin  in  time  to  hear  this  last  remark,  "for  yonder  off  to 
larboard  is  Castlehaven  Point,  and  two  points  farther  down  is  Cooke's." 

Ebenezer  groaned.  "What  joyous  tidings  those  should  be!  And  yet  'tis 
like  a  knell  of  death,  for  de'il  the  bit  I  want  to  see  my  home,  'tis  mine  no 
more,  and  once  I've  seen  it  my  life  is  done.  Belike  I  shan't  even  go  ashore, 
but  end  my  misery  in  the  Great  Choptank." 

"Oh  la,"  said  Sowter,  "there's  always  some  expedient.  Ye  may  at  least 
console  yourself  'twas  not  rum,  wrongheadedness,  or  the  rage  o'  the  mob 
that  brought  ye  low,  but  simple  pride  and  innocence,  such  as  have  ruined 
many  a  noble  wight  before.  See  that  house  yonder  in  the  poplars?" 

The  sloop  had  cleared  Castlehaven  Point  and  was  now  laid  over  on  a 
starboard  tack  due  westward  into  a  fresh  breeze  blowing  from  the  Bay. 
Ashore  off  the  larboard  beam  had  appeared  a  large  white  clapboard  manor. 

"Not  Maiden  so  soon!"  cried  the  poet. 

"Nay,  St.  Clement's  anchor,  'tis  Castlehaven,  and  where  it  stands  once 
stood  a  very  castle  of  a  manor-house  called  Edouardine,  that  was  built  to 


[460]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

last  till  the  end  o'  time.  There  is  a  tale  o'  costly  pride,  if  the  truth  of  it  were 
known." 

Ebenezer  remembered  the  story  of  the  young  woman  whom  his  father 
had  rescued  from  drowning  and  who  had  served  as  wet  nurse  for  himself 
and  Anna  until  Andrew's  return  to  England.  "Methinks  I  have  heard  the 
name/'  he  said  gloomily.  "I've  not  fortitude  enough  to  hear  the  tale." 

"Nor  have  I  time  to  tell  it/'  Sowter  replied.  He  pointed  to  a  wooded 
spit  of  land  some  five  or  six  miles  to  westward,  across  the  huge  expanse  of 
the  river's  mouth.  "There  lies  Cooke's  Point  ahead,  where  the  Choptank 
meets  the  Chesapeake.  Ye'll  see  Maiden  in  a  minute,  when  we're  closer." 

"God  damn  your  lying  soul,  Dick  Sowter!"  cried  Tom  Tayloe.  "Will  ye 
cany  this  fraud  so  far?" 

Sowter  smiled  as  if  surprised.  "St.  Cuthbert's  beads,  sir,  I  know  not  what 
fraud  ye  speak  of.  Pardon  me  whilst  I  get  my  papers  ready  for  Mr.  Smith." 

When  he  had  gone  again  into  the  cabin,  Tayloe  clutched  at  Ebenezer's 
deerskin  shirt.  "Thou'rt  ill,  are  ye  not,  and  want  nursing  back  to  health?" 

"That  Fm  ill  is  clear/'  Ebenezer  answered.  "But  what  need  hath  a  ruined 
man  of  health?  I  mean  to  have  one  look  at  Maiden  and  end  my  life." 

"Nay,  man,  that  were  foolish!  Ye  have  been  swived  out  o'  your  rightful 
place,  as  I  have  been,  but  thou'rt  not  disliked  amongst  the  public  and  the 
courts.  Smith  and  Sowter  have  undone  ye  for  the  present,  yet  it  wants  but 
time,  methinks,  and  careful  thought,  to  have  your  manor  back." 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head.  "That  is  vain  hope,  and  cruel  to  entertain." 

"Not  at  all!"  Tayloe  insisted.  "There  is  the  Governor  to  appeal  to,  and 
belike  thy  father  hath  some  influence  in  court.  With  time  enough,  and 
patience,  thou'rt  sure  to  find  some  trick.  Why,  I'll  wager  ye  have  not  even 

seen  a  barrister  yet,  that  might  match  old  Sowter's  craft  with  craft  of  his 

_____  »> 

own. 

Ebenezer  admitted  that  he  had  not.  "Yet  'tis  a  lost  cause  after  all,"  he 
sighed.  "I've  not  a  penny  to  subsist  on,  nor  any  friend  to  borrow  from, 
and  scarce  can  walk  for  fever." 

'That  is  my  point  exactly,"  Tayloe  said.  "Ye  know  I'm  not  McEvoy, 
and  have  been  falsely  bonded  for  a  servant,  and  I've  shown  ye  how  hopeless 
is  my  case.  Once  I  set  foot  on  Cooke's  Point  I  lose  four  years  o'  my  life- 
nay,  more;  'twill  be  no  chore  for  Sowtjer  to  have  the  term  drawn  out  on 
some  pretext,  since  he  knows  Judge  Hammaker  will  support  him." 

"Haply  'tis  my  illness,"  said  Ebenezer.  "I  fail  to  see  what  connec- 
tion  " 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  461  ] 

"If  this  Smith  signs  my  indenture-bond,  I'm  lost,"  Tayloe  said  desper- 
ately. "But  if  'twere  you  he  bonded  .  .  ." 

"I!" 

"Pray  hear  me  out!"  the  fat  man  pleaded.  "  'Twould  be  the  answer  to 
both  our  problems  if  you  served  in  my  stead.  I  would  be  free  o'  Sowter's 
clutches,  and  'tis  the  master's  obligation  to  feed,  clothe,  and  house  his  serv- 
ants, and  nurse  'em  when  they're  ill." 

Ebenezer  screwed  up  his  features  as  if  to  aid  him  in  assimilating  the 
idea.  "But  to  be  a  servant  on  my  own  estatel" 

"So  much  the  better.  Ye  can  keep  your  eyes  open  for  ways  to  get  your 
due.  And  once  I'm  free,  d'ye  think  I'll  e'er  forget  your  kindness?  I'll  move 
Heav'n  and  earth  in  your  behalf;  notify  your  father " 

"Nay,  not  that!"  Ebenezer  blanched  at  the  thought. 

"Governor  Nicholson,  then,"  Tayloe  amended  hastily.  "I'll  petition 
Nicholson  himself,  and  rouse  the  folk  in  Dorset  to  your  cause!  They'll  ne'er 
sit  idly  whilst  their  Laureate  leads  a  servant's  life!" 

"But  four  years  a  menial " 

"Fogh!  'Twill  never  last  four  weeks,  once  I  set  to  work.  'Tis  the  master 
o'  Maiden  ye'll  be  indented  to,  not  Smith  himself,  and  as  soon  as  Maiden's 
in  your  hands  again,  ye  may  use  your  bond  for  a  bumswipe." 

Ebenezer  laughed  uneasily.  "I  cannot  say  your  plan  hath  not  some 
merits " 

"  'Twill  save  your  life,  and  mine  as  well!" 

"—and  yet  I  scarce  can  fancy  Sowter's  hearing  you  out,  much  less 
agreeing." 

"There  is  the  key  to't!"  Tayloe  whispered  urgently,  and  drew  the  Laureate 
closer.  "If  I  make  the  plea  he  will  suspect  some  plot  and  haply  turn  me 
down  from  mere  suspicion.  Twere  wiser  you  make  the  plea— and  not  to 
Sowter,  but  to  Smith,  who  hath  no  reason  to  be  my  enemy.  One  servant 
should  be  as  good  as  another  to  him." 

"Yet  if  'twere  I,"  Ebenezer  mused,  recalling  again  the  story  of  his  wet 
nurse,  "I'd  be  more  inclined  to  hire  a  healthy  servant  than  an  ill." 

"Not  if  the  ill  is  willing,"  Tayloe  corrected,  "whilst  the  healthy  shows 
every  sign  o'  making  trouble.  Make  your  bargain  with  Smith,  as  if  'twere 
but  your  motive  to  regain  your  health  and  redress  the  great  injustice  of 
my  case." 

Ebenezer  smiled  bitterly.  "He  knows  me  already  for  a  man  most  inter- 
ested in  justice!  And  belike  'twill  please  him  to  have  his  erstwhile  master  for 
a  common  servant .  .  ." 


[462]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Tayloe  made  as  if  to  embrace  him.  "Bless  ye,  sir!  Yell  do't,  then?" 

Ebenezer  drew  back.  "I've  not  consented,  mind.  But  'tis  that  or  suicide, 
and  so  it  deserves  some  thought." 

Unable  to  do  more,  Tayloe  caught  his  hand  and  kissed  it.  "  'Sheart,  sir, 
thou'rt  a  saint  indeed:  a  very  Christian  saint!" 

"Which  is  to  say,  fit  meat  for  martyring,"  the  Laureate  answered,  "a  mor- 
sel for  the  wide  world's  lions." 

The  reappearance  of  Sowter  on  deck  ended  their  conversation.  "Say 
what  ye  will,"  he  declared,  not  clearly  apropos  of  anything,  "'twas  a  pass- 
ing fine  property  to  lose,  by  Martin's  rum  pot,  and  were  I  in  thy  shoes  I'd 
do  all  in  my  power  to  retrieve  it— e'en  if  'twere  no  more  than  praying  to  St. 
Elian,  the  recoverer  of  lost  goods." 

As  he  spoke  he  was  gazing  narrow-eyed  out  to  sea,  so  that  for  a  moment 
Ebenezer  feared  he'd  overheard  their  plans  and  was  hatching  some  retalia- 
tion. But  then  he  said,  "Lookee  yonder,  lad,"  and  with  a  sheaf  of  rolled-up 
documents  pointed  westward  in  the  direction  of  his  gaze.  Though  still  some 
two  or  three  miles  from  shore,  the  sloop  had  beaten  close  enough  on  its 
starboard  tack  so  that  individual  trees  could  be  distinguished—maples  and 
oaks  on  the  higher  ground  and  loblolly  pines  near  the  beach— and  a  boat 
dock  could  be  seen  extending  toward  them  from  a  lawn  of  grass  that  ran 
back  to  a  white  wooden  house  of  gracious  design  and  ample  dimensions, 
not  greatly  different  in  appearance  from  the  house  at  Castlehaven. 

"Is  there  a  tale  to  that  one  too?"  Ebenezer  asked  without  interest. 

"St.  Veronica's  sacred  snot-rag,  boy,  thou'rt  a  better  judge  than  I,"  the 
lawyer  laughed,  "'Tis  Maiden." 


31:    THE  LAUREATE  ATTAINS  HUSBANDHOOD  AT  NO 
EXPENSE  WHATEVER  OF  HIS  INNOCENCE 


AS  SOWTER'S  SLOOP  DREW  NEARER  TO  THE  SHORE,  THE  ESTATE  BECAME 
visible  in  more  detail,  and  Ebenezer  gazed  at  it  with  an  ever  queasier 
stomach.  The  house,  to  be  sure,  was  somewhat  smaller  than  he  had  antici- 
pated, and  of  perishable  white-painted  clapboards  rather  than  the  fieldstone 
one  might  wish  for;  the  grounds,  too,  evidenced  little  attention  to  artful 
landscaping  on  the  part  of  his  father  and  indifferent  care  on  the  part  of  the 
residents.  But  viewed  through  the  triple  lenses  of  fever,  loss,  and  earliest 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  463  ] 

childhood  memories,  the  place  took  on  a  noble  aspect  indeed:  Ebenezer's 
fancy  replaced  a  cracked  pane  here,  mended  a  clapboard  there,  fitted  new 
shingles,  applied  fresh  paint,  rearranged  the  shrubbery,  trimmed  the  grass, 
and  generally  invested  house  and  grounds  with  everything  they  lacked. 

His  first  thought,  oddly,  was  of  his  sister  Anna.  "Dear  Heav'n!"  he 
reflected,  and  tears  made  his  vision  swim.  "I  have  let  our  ancient  home  slip 
through  my  fingers!  God  curse  such  innocence!" 

This  last  ejaculation  reminded  him  of  Andrew,  and  though  he  shuddered 
at  the  thought  of  his  father's  wrath  when  the  news  reached  England,  he 
could  not  help  almost  wishing  that  that  rage  and  punishment  (which  surely 
would  amount  to  total  disinheritance  and  disownment)  were  upon  him, 
so  more  miserable  and  unconsoling  was  his  present  self-contempt.  Tayloe's 
startling  proposal  was  rendered  more  attractive  by  this  notion:  not  only 
would  it  provide  him  with  the  subsistence  and  medical  care  he  obviously 
needed  and  a  chance,  however  slim,  of  regaining  the  estate;  indenturing 
himself  to  the  "master  of  Maiden"  would  also  be  a  punishment— indeed, 
to  his  essentially  poetic  and  currently  feverish  fancy,  even  a  kind  of 
atonement— for  his  misdeeds.  His  innocence  had  cost  him  his  estate; 
very  well,  then,  he  would  be  the  servant  of  his  innocence— and  perhaps, 
even,  as  the  term  redemptioner  nicely  implied,,  expiate  thereby  his  folly  by 
undoing  the  cooper  William  Smith.  There  was  even  more  to  the  allegory 
than  this,  he  felt,  but  when  he  tried  to  follow  it  farther  it  only  became 
tangled  and  contradictory.  He  grew  dizzy  and  abandoned  the  attempt: 
Burlingame,  no  doubt,  could  make  the  whole  conceit  appear  ridiculous  if 
he  knew  of  it,  and  in  any  case  the  most  immediately  important  considera- 
tion was  the  prosaic  one  of  recovering  from  the  ill  effects  of  his  "seasoning." 

When  the  sloop  made  fast  to  the  dock,  Sowter  left  Tayloe  shackled  to 
the  gunwale  against  the  completion  of  arrangements  for  his  transfer  to 
Smith,  and  invited  Ebenezer  to  accompany  him  up  to  the  house. 

"  Tis  not  for  me  to  say  how  welcome  yell  be,  but  at  the  least  ye  may 
enquire  about  your  servant  and  your  lady  friend,  and  have  a  look  about." 

"Aye,  and  I  must  see  Smith  as  well,"  the  Laureate  said  weakly.  "I  have 
a  thing  to  say  to  him." 

"Ah,  well,  we  have  some  business  to  attend  toy  he  and  I,  but  after  that 

Lookee,  by  Goodman's  needle!  There  he  comes  to  greet  us.  Hallo,  there!" 

The  cooper  waved  back  from  the  doorway  of  the  house  and  walked  down 
the  lawn  in  their  direction,  accompanied  by  a  woman  in  a  Scotch-cloth 
gown. 

"rtaith!"  Ebenezer  exclaimed.  "Is  that  the  trollop  Susan  Wairen?" 


[464]  '     THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Mr.  Smith's  daughter/'  Sowter  reminded  him. 

As  they  drew  nearer,  Susan  regarded  the  Laureate  intently;  Ebenezer, 
for  his  part,  was  filled  with  anger  and  shame,  and  avoided  her  eyes. 

"Well,  well,"  Smith  cried,  "'tis  Mister  Cooke!  I  did  not  know  ye  at  first 
in  your  new  clothes,  sir,  but  thou'rt  welcome  to  Maiden  for  certain  and 
must  stay  to  dinner!" 

"Methinks  he's  ill,"  Susan  said  with  some  concern. 

"I  am  sick  unto  death,"  Ebenezer  said,  and  could  say  no  more;  he 
swayed  dizzily  on  his  feet,  and  was  obliged  to  catch  Sowter  s  arm  to  keep 
from  falling. 

"Take  him  inside,"  Smith  ordered  Susan.  "Haply  Doctor  Sowter  can 
give  him  a  pill  when  we've  done  our  business." 

The  girl  obediently  and  to  the  Laureate's  embarrassment  put  his  arm 
across  her  shoulders  and  led  him  toward  the  house.  Except  that  she  seemed 
to  have  washed,  she  was  as  ragged  and  unkempt  now  as  when  he  had  first 
seen  her  driving  Captain  Mitchell's  swine,  and  even  the  brief  glimpse  of 
her  that  his  shame  permitted  was  enough  to  show  that  her  face  and  neck 
were  even  more  disfigured  than  before  by  marks  and  welts. 

"Where  is  Joan  Toast?"  he  asked,  as  soon  as  he  was  able.  "Hath  your 
wretch  of  a  father  mistreated  her?" 

"She  never  did  arrive,"  Susan  answered  shortly.  "Belike  she  misdoubted 
your  intentions:  a  whore  hath  little  grounds  for  faith  in  men." 

"And  a  man  for  faith  in  whores!  I  swear  you  this,  Susan  Warren:  if  you 
have  been  party  to  any  injury  to  that  girl,  you'll  suffer  for't!"  He  wanted  to 
press  her  further,  especially  with  reference  to  the  discrepancy  between  her 
story  and  that  of  Burlingame,  who  had  not  seen  or  heard  of  Joan  Toast's 
presence  in  the  Province,  but  aside  from  his  weakness  there  were  two  un- 
pleasant considerations  that  kept  him  from  pursuing  the  subject:  in  the 
first  place,  Joan  might  well  have  learned  that  the  man  she  sought  was  sud- 
denly a  pauper  and  thus,  in  her  eyes,  no  longer  worth  seeking;  in  the  second 
place,  and  perhaps  additionally,  she  might  have  got  word  of  McEvoy's  hav- 
ing followed  her  to  Maryland,  and  gone  to  join  him  instead.  Therefore, 
when  Susan  assured  him  that  if  any  injury  had  befallen  Joan  Toast  it  was 
not  at  her,  Susan's,  hands,  he  contented  himself  with  asking  after  Bertrand, 
whom  Burlingame  had  dispatched  to  St.  Mary's  City  to  retrieve  the 
Laureate's  baggage. 

"The  trunk  ye  sent  him  to  fetch  is  here,"  the  girl  replied.  "  Twas  sent 
over  by  the  packet  from  St.  Mary's.  But  of  the  man  I've  seen  no  trace,  nor 
heard  a  word." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  465  ] 

"Whom Fortune  buffets,  the  -whole  -world  beats"  sighed  Ebenezer.  " Tis 
best  for  both  if  the/ve  found  new  ground  to  graze,  for  I've  naught  to  keep 
wife  or  servant  on  any  more.  But  withal,  their  lack  of  loyalty  wounds  me 
to  the  quick!" 

They  entered  the  house,  and  though  the  interior  showed  the  same  need 
of  attention  as  the  outside,  the  rooms  were  spacious  and  adequately  fur- 
nished, and  the  Laureate  wept  to  see  them. 

"How  like  a  paradise  Maiden  seems  to  me,  now  I've  lost  it!"  He  found  it 
necessary  to  sit  down,  but  when  Susan  made  to  assist  him  he  waved  her 
away  angrily.  "Why  feign  solicitude  to  a  sick  and  feckless  pauper?  I  doubt 
not  you've  made  peace  with  your  father,  now  he's  a  gentleman  planter- 
get  thee  gone  and  play  the  great  lady  on  my  estate!  What,  you  have  a  tear 
for  me,  do  you?  When  all's  consum'd,  repentance  comes  too  late" 

Susan  dabbed  immodestly  at  her  eyes  with  the  hem  of  her  threadbare 
dress.  "Thou'rt  not  the  only  person  injured  by  your  day  in  court/' 

"Ha!  Your  father  birched  you,  did  he,  for  taking  the  stand  against  him? 
'Tis  no  more  than  such  lewd  lies  deserve,  whether  'twas  he  or  I  you  lied  to." 

Susan  shook  her  head  sadly.  "Things  are  not  as  they  seem,  Mister 
Cooke " 

"I'God!"  Ebenezer  clasped  his  head.  "The  old  refrain!  My  estate  and 
Anna's  dowry  is  lost,  my  best  friend  hath  betrayed  me  and  left  me  to  starve, 
the  woman  I  love  hath  either  met  foul  play  or  scorned  me  for  a  pauper,  I 
am  as  good  as  disowned  by  my  father  and  near  dead  of  the  seasoning,  and 
in  my  final  hours  on  earth  I  must  abide  the  wisdom  of  a  thankless  strumpet! 
Tis  too  much!" 

"Haply  ye'll  understand  one  day,"  Susan  said.  "I  have  no  wish  to  do  ye 
farther  hurt  than  ye've  done  yourself  already!" 

With  this  remark,  for  all  the  coarseness  of  her  aspect,  Susan  fled  weeping 
from  the  room. 

"Nay,  wait!"  the  Laureate  begged,  and  despite  his  illness  he  set  out  after 
her  to  apologize  for  his  unkind  words.  He  was,  however,  unable  to  move 
with  any  haste  or  efficiency,  and  soon  lost  her.  He  wandered  through  a 
number  of  empty  rooms,  uncertain  of  his  objective,  until  at  last  he  found 
himself  in  what  appeared  to  be  the  kitchen.  Three  women,  all  in  the  dress 
of  servants,  were  playing  a  game  of  cards  around  a  table;  they  regarded 
him  uncordially. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  ladies,"  he  said,  leaning  against  the  doorframe;  "I 
am  looking  for  Mrs.  Susan  Warren." 

"Then  thou'rt  seeking  an  early  grave,"  the  dealer  quipped,  and  the 


[466]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

others  laughed  merrily.  "Get  along  with  ye,  now;  'tis  too  early  in  the  day 
to  bother  Susie  or  any  o'  the  rest  of  us." 

"Forgive  me,"  Ebenezer  said  hastily.  "I  had  no  mind  to  intrude  upon 
your  game." 

"  Tis  but  a  simple  hand  of  lanterloo,"  said  the  woman  with  the  cards. 

"Simple  to  misdeal!"  cried  another,  who  spoke  with  a  French  accent. 
"What  is  it  that  you  do?  Cheat  me?" 

"Ye  dare  call  me  a  cheat!"  the  first  replied.  "Thou'rt  something  brave 
for  one  not  a  fortnight  loose  o'  your  serving-papers!" 

"Hold  thy  tongue,  boite  seche!"  growled  the  French  woman.  "I  know 
Captain  Scurry  swived  you  for  your  freight,  what  time  he  fetched  you  off 
the  streets  and  shipped  you  hither!" 

"No  more  than  Slye  did  you,"  cried  the  dealer,  "though  God  alone 
knows  why  a  man  would  swive  a  sow!  And  if  he  found  me  in  St.  Paul's, 
'twas  from  Bridewell  he  fished  the  likes  o'  you,  or  the  stinking  stews  o' 
Paris!" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  Ebenezer  interrupted.  "If  you  are  servants  of  the 
house  -  " 

"Non,  certainement,  I  am  no  servant!" 

"The  truth  is,"  said  the  dealer,  "Grace  here's  a  hooker." 

"A  what?"  asked  the  poet. 

^A  hooker,"  the  woman  repeated  with  a  wink.  "A  quail,  don't  ye  know." 

"A  quail!"  the  woman  named  Grace  shrieked.  "You  call  me  a  quail,  you 
—you  gaullefretierer 

"Whore!"  shouted  the  first. 

^Eas-cuir  retorted  the  other. 

"Frisker!" 

"Consoeurr 

"Trull!" 

"Friquenellel" 

"Sow!" 


"Bawd!" 


"Strawgirl!" 
"Seraner 
"Tumbler!" 
"Poupinettel" 

"Mattressback! 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [467] 


"Brimballeuse!" 

"Nannygoat!" 

"Chouettel" 

"Windowgirl!" 

"Wauve!" 

"Lowgap!" 

"Peaultre!" 

"GalleywenchT 

"Baque!" 

"Drab!" 

"Villotitre!" 

"Fastfanny!" 

"Gaure!" 

"Ringer!" 

"Bringue/" 

"Capercock!" 

"Ancette!" 

"Nellie!" 

"Gdl&el" 

"Chubcheeker!" 

"Ctevre/" 

"Nightbird!" 


"Rawhide!" 

"Cezprc!" 

"Shortheels!" 

"PaiUardet" 

"Bumbessie!" 

"Image!" 

"Furrowbutt!" 

"Voyagere!" 

"Pinkpot!" 

"Femme  de  vie!" 

"Rum-and-rut!" 

"Fellatrice!" 

"Ladies!  Ladies!"  the  Laureate  cried,  but  by  this  time  the  cardplayers, 
including  the  two  disputants,  were  possessed  with  mirth,  and  paid  him  no 
heed. 

"Coxswain!"  shouted  the  one  whose  turn  it  was  to  play. 


£  A.6S  ]  THE    SOT-WEED    FACTOR 

"Trottterel"  Grace  replied. 

"Conycatcher!" 

"GoiLTgftndineF* 

"Tart!" 

"CoquatriceF 

"Fluter!" 


"Cockeye!" 

"Pelerinel" 

"Crane!" 

"DrdlLessel" 

"Trotter!" 

"PeUicel" 

"Fleecer!" 


"Fatback!" 


"Nightbagl" 

"Reveleusel" 

"Vagrant!" 

"Postiqueusel" 

"Arsebenderl" 

"Tir&us&  de  vinaigrel" 

"Sally-dally!" 

"Rigpbettel" 

"Bitch!" 

"Pr&tresse  du  membrel" 

"Saltflitch!" 

"Sfmrditel" 

"Canvasback!" 

"Redresseuse!" 

"Hipflipper!" 

"Personni^reJ" 

"Hardtonguer!" 

"Ribauldel" 

"Bedbug!" 

"Posoeral" 

"Hamhocker!" 

"RicdLdexl" 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  469  ] 


"Bullseye!" 

"Sac-de-nuit!" 

"Breechdropper!" 

"Roussecaignel" 

"Giftbox!" 

"Scaldrine!" 

"Craterbutt!" 

"Tendri&re  de  bouche  et  reins!" 

"Pisspallet!" 

"PresentiereF 

"Naiycherry!" 

"Femme  de  mal  recapte!" 

"Poxbox!" 

"Tousef 

"Flapgap!" 


"Codhopper!" 

"CourieuseF 

"Bellylass!" 


"Trollop!" 


"Peddlesnatch!" 
"FolieuseF 
"Backgammon!^ 
"Gondmef 


"Drue!" 
"Prickpocket!" 


"Dear  God  in  Heav'n,  cease!"  Ebenezer  commanded,  so  overwhelmed 
by  their  debate  that  with  his  hands  over  his  ears  he  reeled  about  the  room  as 
if  each  epithet  were  a  blow  to  the  head. 

"Nay,  by  Christ,  'tis  a  war  to  the  end!"  cried  the  dealer.  "Would  ye  have 
old  England  surrender  to  the  French?  Why,  she's  naught  but  a  common 
meatcooker!" 

"And  you  a  jannetonF.  the  other  replied  gleefully. 

"Arsievarsie!" 

"Fillette  de  pis!" 


47°  3  XHK    SOT-WEED    FACTOR 

"Backscratcher!" 

"Demoiselle  de  moraisl" 

"BumpbaconI" 

"Gaultierel" 

"Full-o*-tricks!" 

"Ensaignantel" 

"Pesthole!" 

"Gastr 

"Romp!" 

"Court  talonr 

"Pigpokel" 

"Folle  de  corpsf" 

"Scabber!" 

"Gouiruel" 

"Strumpet!" 

"Fille  d&  joiel" 

"Gullybum!" 

"Droumel" 

"Tess  Tuppence!" 

"Gaupel" 

"Slattern!" 

"Entaitte  d'amourl" 

"Doxy!" 

"Accrocheusel" 

"Chippie!" 

"CZozsrridreJ" 

"Puddletrotter!" 


"Hetaera!" 

"Caignardierel" 

"Pipecleaner!" 


"Rumper!" 


"Hotpot!" 

"Alicaire!" 

"Backbender!" 

"Champissel" 

"Sink-o'-perdirion!" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  471  1 


"Cantonnierel" 

"Leasepiece!" 

"Ambubaye!" 

"Spreadeagle!" 

"Bassara!" 

"Gutterflopper!" 

"Bezoche!" 

"Cockatrice!" 

"Caille!" 

"Sausage-grinded" 

"Bourbeteuse!" 

"Cornergirl!" 

"Braydonel" 

"Codwinkerl" 

"Bonsoirt" 

"Charlotte  Harlot!" 

"Bltmchisseuse  des  pipes!" 

"Nutcracker!" 

"Balances  de  boucherl" 

"Meat-vendor!" 

"Femme  de  pech6l" 

"Hedgewhore!" 

"Lecheresse!" 

"Ventrenter!" 


"Lightheels!" 

"Pantonierer 

"Gadder!" 

"Grue!" 

"Ragbag!" 

"Musequinel" 

"Fleshpotl" 

"Louve!" 

"Lecheress!" 

"Martingdel" 

"Tollhole!" 

"Harrebane!" 

"Pillowgut!" 

"Marane!" 


[AJ2]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Chamberpot!" 

"Levriere  d'amour!" 

"Swilltrough!" 

"Pannanessel" 

"Potlicker!" 

"Linatte  coiffeel" 

"Bedpan!" 

"Hourieuse!" 

"Cotwarmer!" 

"MocUl" 

"Stumpthumper!" 

"Maxima!" 

"Messalina!" 

"Louditre!" 

"Slopjar!" 

"Mana-fle!" 

'Hussy!" 

"Lesbinef9 

"Priest-layer!" 

"Horel" 

"Harpy!" 

"MandraunaF 

"Diddled" 


"Foul-mouthed  harridans!"  Ebenezer  cried,  and  fled  through  the  first 
door  he  encountered.  It  led  him  by  a  shorter  route  back  to  his  starting 
place,  where  William  Smith  now  sat  alone,  smoking  a  pipe  by  the  fire.  "To 
what  evil  state  hath  Maiden  sunk,  to  house  such  a  circle  of  harpies!  When 
Captain  Mitchell  called  it  a  den  of  thieves  and  whores,  who  knew  'twas  the 
literal  truth  he  spoke?" 

Smith  shook  his  head  sympathetically.  "Things  are  in  a  sorry  pass,  thanks 
to  Ben  Spurdance.  'Twill  take  some  doing  to  put  my  business  in  order." 

"Thy  business!  Don't  you  see  my  plight,  man?  I  am  ruined,  a  pauper, 
and  ill  to  the  death  of  fever.  'Twas  mere  mischance  I  granted  you  Cooke's 
Point:  a  sorry  accident  made  with  every  generous  intent!  Let  me  give  you 
twenty  acres—that's  your  due.  Nay,  thirty  acres—  after  all,  I  saved  your 
skin!  Now  return  me  Maiden,  I  pray  you  humbly,  and  so  save  mine!" 

"Stay,  stay/'  Smith  interrupted.  "Ye'll  not  have  back  your  Maiden,  and 
there's  an  end  on't.  What,  shall  I  make  me  a  poor  man  again,  from  a  rich?" 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  473  ] 

"Forty  acres,  then!"  begged  Ebenezer.  "Take  twice  your  legal  due,  or 
'tis  the  river  for  me!" 

"The  entire  point's  my  legal  due:  our  conveyance  says  so  plainly." 

Ebenezer  slumped  back  in  his  chair.  "Ah  God,  were  I  only  well,  or  could 
I  take  this  swindle  to  an  English  court  of  law!" 

"Ye'd  get  the  selfsame  answer,"  Smith  retorted.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  now, 
friend  Cooke;  I  must  inspect  a  man  Dick  Sowter  hath  indented  me."  He 
made  to  leave  through  the  front  entrance. 

"Wait!"  the  Laureate  cried.  "That  man  was  falsely  indentured—betrayed, 
like  myself,  by's  trust  in  his  fellow  man!  His  name  is  not  McEvoy  at  all,  but 
Thomas  Tayloe  of  Talbot!" 

Smith  shrugged.  "I  care  not  if  he  calls  himself  the  Pope  o'  Rome,  so  he 
hath  a  willing  back  and  a  small  appetite." 

"He  hath  not  either,"  Ebenezer  declared,  and  very  briefly  explained  the 
circumstances  of  Tayloe's  indenture. 

"If  what  ye  say  be  true,  'tis  a  great  misfortune,"  Smith  allowed.  "Howbeit, 
'tis  his  to  moan,  not  mine.  And  now  excuse  me " 

"One  moment!"  Ebenezer  managed  to  walk  across  the  room  to  face  the 
cooper.  "If  you  will  not  do  justice  at  your  own  expense,  haply  you'll  see  fit 
to  do't  at  mine.  Turn  Tayloe  free,  and  bond  me  in  his  stead." 

"What  folly  is  this?"  exclaimed  the  cooper. 

Ebenezer  pointed  out,  as  coherently  as  he  could  manage,  that  he  was 
ill  and  in  need  of  some  days'  rest  and  recuperation,  in  return  wherefor, 
and  his  keep,  he  would  be  a  willing  and  ready  servant  in  whatever  capacity 
Smith  saw  fit  to  employ  him— especially  clerking  and  the  posting  of 
ledgers,  with  which  he  had  a  good  deal  of  experience.  Tayloe,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  not  only  in  truth  a  freeman;  he  was  also  a  gluttonous  sluggard 
who  would  surely  bear  a  dangerous,  if  justifiable  resentment  towards  his 
master. 

"There  is  sense  in  all  ye  say,"  mused  William  Smith.  "Yet  I  can  starve  a 
glutton  and  flog  a  troublemaker,  at  no  expense  whatever,  whilst  a  sick 
man " 

"Dear  God!"  groaned  the  poet.  "Must  I  beg  you  to  make  me  a  servant  on 

my  own  estate?  Very  well,  then "  He  knelt  in  supplication  on  the  floor. 

"I  beseech  you  to  bond  me  as  a  servant,  for  any  term  you  choose!  If  you 
refuse,  'tis  as  much  as  murthering  me  outright!" 

Smith  sucked  at  his  pipe  and,  finding  it  cold,  relit  it  with  an  ember  from 
the  fire. 


£  474]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"I  am  nor  poet  nor  gentleman,"  he  said  at  last,  "but  only  a  simple  cooper 
that  hath  no  wish  to  lose  his  goods.  Yet  I  please  myself  to  think  I  am  no 
fool,  nor  any  child  in  the  ways  o'  the  world,  and  I  know  well  thou'rt  moved 
by  no  great  virtuous  cause  to  be  my  servant,  but  merely  to  be  nursed 
through  your  seasoning  and  then  to  seek  out  ways  and  means  to  work  my 
ruin  .  .  ." 

"I  swear  to  you " 

"Stay,  I  am  not  done.  Til  not  indent  you,  nor  do  I  want  ye  skulking 
about  my  plantation.  But  I  will  see  ye  well  nursed  past  your  seasoning,  on 
one  condition." 

"Name  your  terms,"  Ebenezer  said.  "I  am  sick  past  haggling."  He  re- 
turned to  his  chair  and  closed  his  eyes. 

"The  fact  is,  I  am  looking  to  make  a  fit  match  for  my  daughter  Susan, 
whose  husband  died  some  years  past  in  London.  If  yell  contract  to  wed 
her  this  very  night,  Til  give  for  her  dowry  a  half-year's  board  at  Maiden, 
with  all  the  care  ye  need  from  Dick  Sowter,  the  best  physician  in  Dorset.  If 
ye  choose  to  wed  her  tomorrow,  'twill  be  five  months'  board,  and  a  month 
less  for  each  day  thereafter.  Done?" 

"  'Sheart,  man!"  gasped  the  Laureate^  'What  a  torrent  of  grand  proposals 
and  designs!  Tis  preposterous!" 

Smith  bowed  slightly.  "Our  business  is  done,  then,  and  good  day  t'ye." 

"Don't  go!  Tis  just— i'God,  I  must  have  time  to  ponder  the  thing!" 

"Surely,"  the  cooper  smiled.  "Take  the  while  I  finish  this  pipe.  After 
that  I  withdraw  my  offer." 

"You'll  drive  me  mad  with  choices!"  Ebenezer  wailed,  but  as  Smith  made 
no  reply  other  than  puffing  on  his  pipe,  he  began  to  weigh  frantically  the 
alternatives  of  marriage  and  death,  wincing  at  either  prospect. 

"What  is  your  choice?"  Smith  inquired  presently,  tapping  out  his  pipe 
on  an  andiron. 

"I  have  none,"  Ebenezer  sighed.  "I  shall  marry  your  ruined  harlot  of  a 
daughter  to  save  my  life,  and  God  save  me  from  her  pox  and  her  perfidy! 
But  I  must  see  your  bargain  writ  into  a  contract,  and  both  our  names 
appended." 

"'Tis  only  fair,"  the  cooper  agreed,  and  set  before  the  Laureate  a  small 
table  on  which  were  quills,  a  pot  of  ink,  and  a  sheaf  of  documents  very  like 
those  with  which  Richard  Sowter  had  pointed  out  Maiden  from  the  sloop. 
"Here  are  two  copies  of  a  marriage  contract  that  I  had  Dick  Sowter  draw 
against  the  time  I  made  a  match  for  Susan;  I'll  risk  a  fine  for  not  publishing 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  475  1 

the  banns.  Sign  both,  and  the  thing  is  sealed:  Reverend  Sowter  can  tie 
the  knot  at  once  and  fetch  ye  a  pill" 

"A  preacher  as  well!"  Ebenezer  marveled,  and  was  so  amused  in  his 
near-delirium  by  this  news  that  he  had  signed  one  copy  of  the  contract  and 
was  halfway  through  the  second  before  it  occurred  to  him  to  wonder  how 
it  was  that  Smith  could  produce,  with  such  readiness,  documents  not  only 
contracting  the  marriage  but  also  providing,  on  the  very  terms  proposed  a 
few  moments  before  by  the  cooper,  for  the  bridegroom's  convalescence. 
Even  as  he  foised  his  pen,  dumb  struck  by  the  plot  this  fact  implied, 
Richard  Sowter,  Susan  Warren,  and  Thomas  Tayloe  entered  from  outside, 
accompanied  by  no  other  soul  than  Henry  Burlingame. 

"Stop!"  cried  Susan,  when  she  saw  what  was  in  progress.  "Don't  sign 
that  paper!"  She  ran  toward  the  table,  but  Smith  snatched  up  the  papers 
before  she  got  there. 

"Too  late,  my  dear,  he  is  three  fourths  signed  already,  and  'twill  be  no 
chore  for  Timothy  here  to  forge  the  rest." 

Ebenezer  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  his  features  twitching.  "Henry! 
What— what  plot  is  this?  Have  you  returned  to  steal  these  Indian  rags,  or 
haply  to  sport  me  with  more  scurrilous  rhymes?" 

"There  was  a  weakness  in  your  court  order,  Mister  Cooke,"  said  Sowter, 
and  took  one  of  the  several  papers  from  Smith.  "Here  where't  says  That 
the  same  William  Smith  shall  see  to  his  daughter's  marriage  at  the  earliest 
opportunity,  and  the  rest.  St.  Winifred's  cherry,  sir!  No  man  in  his  senses 
would  marry  a  whore  bend  with  pox  and  opium,  and  belike  some  rogue 
of  a  judge  would' ve  hung  the  court  order  on  that  clause!" 

"But,"  added  William  Smith,  brandishing  the  contract  in  his  hand,  "this 
paper  here  quite  mends  that  hole,  I  think." 

"It  doth,  it  doth  in  truth,"  Sowter  agreed.  "Tis  a  finer  clout  than  e'er 
St.  Wilfred  sewed,  I  declare!" 

"I  humbly  beg  your  pardon,  Mister  Cooke,"  said  Thomas  Tayloe.  "  Twas 
Sowter's  notion  from  the  first  I  should  ask  ye  to  take  my  place.  He  said 
'twas  the  only  price  he'd  tgke  for  me." 

'Thou'rt  forgiven,"  Ebenezer  said,  smiling  wildly.  "McEvoy  sacrificed 
you  for  his  liberty,  and  you  me  for  your  own — whom  shall  I  trade  for  mine? 
But  dear  fellow,  they  have  swived  you  twice  o'er:  thou'rt  not  a  freeman 
yet." 

"How  is  that?"  Tayloe  demanded. 

"Twas  not  necessary  to  indenture  Mr.  Cooke,"  Smith  said  coolly. 
"Susan,  you  and  Timothy  fetch  out  the  witnesses  from  the  kitchen  and 


[476]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

get  the  bridegroom  ready;  Reverend  Sowter  will  marry  ye  directly  we've 
shown  McEvoy  to  the  servant's  quarters." 

Tayloe  at  once  set  up  a  furious  protest,  but  the  two  men  led  him  off. 
Throughout  the  conversation  Burlingame  had  remained  silent,  and  his  face 
had  been  impassive  when  Ebenezer  had  addressed  him  as  Henry  instead  of 
Timothy;  as  soon  as  Smith  and  Sowter  were  out  of  sight,  however,  his  man- 
ner changed  entirely.  He  rushed  to  the  chair  where  Ebenezer  sat  as  if 
a-swoon  and  gripped  him  by  the  shoulders. 

"EbenI  Eben!  Dear  God,  wake  up  and  hear  me!" 

Ebenezer  squinted  and  turned  away.  "I  cannot  bear  the  sight  of  you." 

"Nay,  Eben,  listen!  I've  little  time  to  speak  ere  they  return,  and  must 
speak  fast:  Smith  is  no  common  cooper,  but  an  agent  of  Captain  Mitchell's, 
that  is  in  turn  Coode's  chief  lieutenant!  There  is  a  wondrous  wicked  plot 
afoot  to  ruin  the  Province  with  pox  and  opium,  the  better  to  overthrow  it 
Great  brothels  and  opium  dens  have  been  established,  and  Maiden's  to  be 
the  chiefest  in  this  county.  All  this  I  learned  by  posing  as  Tim  Mitchell, 
whose  job  it  is  on  some  pretext  to  journey  through  the  counties  with  fresh 
stores  of  opium  and  to  supervise  the  brothels."  Since  Ebenezer  displayed  no 
apparent  interest  or  belief,  Burlingame  went  on  to  explain,  in  an  urgent 
voice,  that  for  some  time  Captain  Mitchell  had  been  scheming  with  Smith 
to  ruin  Ben  Spurdance  (who  had  been  loyal  both  to  the  government  and 
to  his  employer)  in  order  to  gain  access  to  the  strategically  situated  Cooke's 
Point  estate.  He,  Burlingame,  on  the  other  hand,  had  been  seeking  ways 
to  subvert  their  scheme,  although  it  was  not  until  the  occasion  of  Susan's 
escape  (which  was,  to  be  sure,  designed  by  Captain  Mitchell)  that  he  had 
known  for  certain  the  location  of  the  proposed  new  brothel  and  the 
identity  of  Mitchell's  Dorchester  agent. 

"And  'twas  not  till  we  arrived  in  Cambridge,  and  Spurdance  sought  me 
out  whilst  you  were  strolling  elsewhere,  that  I  learned  Susan  was  not  loyal 
to  the  cause  she  served.  They  came  to  me  together,  in  answer  to  a  secret 
sign  I  made  whereby  our  agents  know  one  another,  and  whilst  the  Salter 
case  was  a-hearing,  they  told  me  they  had  found  a  way  to  undo  Smith  by 
the  terms  of  his  indenture,  and  had  influenced  Judge  Hammaker  to  their 
end.  We  had  the  wretch  near  scotched,  by  Heav'n,  with  Susan's  testimony 
—but  your  judgment,  of  course,  foiled  our  plan." 

Ebenezer  still  made  no  reply,  but  tears  ran  from  his  squinted  eyes  and 
coursed  down  the  great  gaunt  reaches  of  his  face. 

"  'Twas  thus  I  dared  show  little  sympathy  for  your  loss,"  Henry  went  on. 
4*I  befriended  Smith  at  once  and  left  you  stranded  in  the  corncrib  to  keep 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  477] 

you  out  of  danger  till  I'd  left  with  him  for  Maiden  and  learnt  more  of  his 
plans  and  temper.  I  thought  he'd  beat  poor  Susan  to  a  powder  for  betraying 
him,  but  instead  he  showed  her  every  courtesy;  'twas  not  till  some  minutes 
past,  when  Susan  told  me  you  were  here  and  I  heard  from  Sowter  the  tale 
of  John  McEvoy  and  Tom  Tayloe,  that  I  saw  the  scoundrel's  plot,  and  for 
all  my  haste  we  arrived  too  late  to  stop  you." 

"It  little  matters  now,"  the  Laureate  said,  closing  his  eyes.  "I  shall  not 
live  to  see  my  father's  wrath,  in  any  case/' 

"Why  can  I  not  refuse  to  have  him?"  asked  Susan,  who  throughout 
Burlingame's  relation  had  been  sitting  tearfully  on  the  floor  beside  Ebene- 
zefs  writing  table.  "'Twould  foil  the  contract  and  greatly  please  Mr. 
Cooke,  I'm  certain." 

Burlingame  replied  that  he  doubted  the  former,  since  the  contract  would 
demonstrate  to  the  court  that  Smith  had  complied  with  the  marriage  order 
as  far  as  was  in  his  power.  "As  for  the  latter,  'tis  none  of  my  affair,  but  I 
know  no  other  way  to  care  for  Eben  just  now  .  .  ." 

"It  doth  not  matter  to  me  any  farther/'  said  Ebenezer. 

"Nay,  don't  despair!"  Burlingame  shook  him  by  the  shoulders  to  stir  him 
awake.  "  Tis  my  opinion  you  should  marry  Susan,  Eben,.  and  let  her  nurse 
you  back  to  health.  I  know  your  thoughts,  and  how  you  prize  your  chastity, 
but— i'faith,  there  is  the  answer!  Thou'rt  obliged  to  wed,  but  not  to  con- 
summate the  marriage;  when  thou'rt  well  again,  and  we  have  found  a  means 
to  undo  William  Smith,  then  Susan  can  sue  for  annulment  on  the  grounds 
thou'rt  still  a  virgin!" 

Susan  hung  her  head,  but  said  no  more.  The  voices  of  Smith  and  Sowter, 
laughing  together,  could  be  heard  in  the  rear  of  the  house,  joined  in  a  mo- 
ment by  the  raucous  voices  of  the  cardplayers  in  the  kitchen. 

"Lookee,  Eben,"  Burlingame  said  quickly.  "I  have  a  pill  of  Sowter's  here 
in  my  pocket— he  is  a  physician,  for  all  his  knavery.  Take  it  now  to  tide  you 
through  the  wedding,  and  I  swear  we'll  see  you  master  of  this  house  ere 
the  year  is  out!" 

Ebenezer  shook  off  his  lethargy  enough  to  groan  and  cover  his  face  with 
his  hands.  "I'Christ,  that  some  god  on  wires  would  sweep  down  and  fetch 
me  off!  Tis  a  far  different  course  I'd  follow,  could  I  begin  once  more  at 
Locket's  winehouse!" 

"Look  alive,  there!"  William  Smith  called  cheerily,  and  strode  into  the 
room  with  Sowter  and  the  three  women.  "Stand  him  up,  now,  Timothy, 
and  let's  have  an  end  on't!" 


[478]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Marry  come  up,"  cried  one  of  the  prostitutes,  running  to  Susan,  "I  do 
love  a  wedding!" 

"Aussi  moi"  said  Grace,  the  Parisienne,  "but  always  I  weep/'  She  drew 
out  her  handkerchief  in  anticipation. 

'Tell  have  to  marry  him  where  he  sits,"  Burlingame  told  Sowter,  using 
the  voice  of  Timothy  Mitchell.  "Here,  now,  Master  Bridegroom;  chew  this 
pill  and  make  your  answers  when  the  time  comes.  Stand  here  by  your  hus- 
band, Susie,  and  hold  his  hand." 

"'Dslife!"  the  third  prostitute  exclaimed  with  mock  alarm.  "D'ye  think 
he's  man  enough  to  take  her  head?" 

"Curb  your  wretched  tongue,"  snapped  Susan,  "ere  I  tear  it  from  your 
face!"  She  grasped  Ebenezer's  hand  and  glared  at  the  assemblage.  "Get 
on  with  it,  Richard  Sowter,  damn  your  eyes!  This  man  is  ill  and  must  be 
got  to  bed  at  once." 

The  ceremony  of  marriage  commenced.  Though  he  could  hear  Sowter's 
voice  clearly,  and  Susan's  when  she  made  her  sullen  responses,  Ebenezer 
could  not  by  any  effort  contrive  to  open  his  eyes,  nor  could  he  more  than 
mumble  when  his  turn  came  to  repeat  the  vows.  The  pill  he  chewed  was 
bitter  on  his  tongue,  but  already,  though  no  more  clearheaded  than  before, 
he  felt  somewhat  less  miserable;  indeed,  when  Sowter  said,  "I  now  pro- 
nounce ye  man  and  wife,"  he  felt  an  impulse  of  sheer  lightheartedness. 

"Sign  the  certificate  quickly,"  Smith  urged  him,  "ere  ye  fall  out  on  the 
floor." 

"I'll  steady  his  hand,"  Burlingame  said,  and  virtually  wrote  the  Laureate's 
signature  on  the  paper. 

"What  is't  ye  gave  him?"  Susan  demanded,  and  with  her  thumb  peeled 
open  one  of  Ebenezer's  eyelids. 

"  Twas  but  to  ensure  he  gets  his  proper  rest,  Mrs.  Cooke,"  Burlingame 
replied. 

At  the  sound  of  the  name  Ebenezer  opened  his  mouth  to  laugh,  and 
though  no  sound  issued  forth,  he  was  delighted  at  the  result. 

"Opium!"  Susan  shrieked. 

This  news  the  Laureate  found  even  more  amusing  than  did  the  company, 
but  he  had  no  opportunity  for  another  of  the  pleasant  laughs:  the  fact  is, 
at  that  very  instant  his  chair  rose  from  the  floor,  passed  through  the  roof 
of  Maiden,  and  shot  up  into  the  opalescent  sky.  As  for  Maryland,  it  turned 
blue  and  flattened  into  an  immense  musical  surface,  which  suavely  slid 
northwestwards  under  seagulls. 


?2:    A  MARYLANDIAD  IS  BROUGHT  TO  BIRTH,  BUT  ITS 
DELIVERER  FARES  AS  BADLY  AS  IN  ANY  OTHER 
CHAPTER 


"TO  PARNASSUS!"  CRIED  THE  LAUREATE  WITH  A  LAUGH,  AND  THE  CHAIR 
sailed  over  Thessaly  to  land  between  twin  mountain  cones  of  polished 
alabaster.  The  valley  wherein  he  came  to  rest  swarmed  with  thousands  upon 
thousands  of  the  world's  inhabitants,  pressing  in  the  foothills. 

"I  say,"  he  inquired  of  one  nearby  who  was  in  the  act  of  tripping  up 
the  fellow  just  ahead,  so  as  to  steal  his  place,  "which  is  Parnassus?" 

"On  the  right,"  the  man  answered  over  his  shoulder.  "Everybody  knows 
that." 

"Tis  as  I  understood  it  to  be,"  the  poet  replied.  "But  what  if  I'd  come 
up  from  the  other  side?  Then  right  would  be  left,  and  left  right,  would 
it  not?  I'm  only  asking  hypothetically,"  he  added,  for  the  stranger  frowned 
a  frown. 

"Right  is  right  and  be  damned  to  ye,"  the  man  growled,  and  disappeared 
into  the  crowd. 

Certainly  from  where  Ebenezer  stood,  far  removed  from  both,  the  two 
mountains  looked  quite  alike,  their  pink  peaks  lost  in  luminous  clouds.  Be- 
ginning at  a  ridge  just  a  little  way  up  their  slopes  were  rows  or  circles 
of  various  obstacles  to  the  climbers.  First  he  saw  a  ring  of  ugly  men  with 
clubs,  who  mashed  the  climbers'  fingers  and  caused  them  either  to  give 
over  the  ascent  entirely  or  remain  where  they  were;  similar  rings  were  sta- 
tioned at  intervals  as  far  as  Ebenezer  could  see  up  the  mountainside,  some 
armed  with  hatchets  or  bodkins  instead  of  clubs.  Nor  were  the  areas  be- 
tween these  circles  free  of  danger.  Here  and  there,  for  example,  were  groups 
of  women  who,  whether  in  the  manner  of  Circe  or  of  Calypso,  invited 
the  climbers  from  their  objective;  beds  and  couches,  set  beside  tables 
of  food  and  wine,  lulled  the  weary  men  who  lay  in  them  to  a  slumber  deep 
as  death;  treadmills  there  were  in  abundance,  and  false  signposts  that  prom- 
ised the  summit  but  led  in  fact  (as  could  be  clearly  observed  from  the 
valley)  to  precipices,  deserts,  jungles,  jails,  and  lunatic  asylums.  Countless 
climbers  fell  to  every  sort  of  obstacle.  Those  who  managed  to  clear  the 
first  line  of  guards—whether  by  forcing  through  with  main  strength,  by 


[480]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

creating  a  diversion  to  distract  attention  from  themselves,  or  by  tickling, 
fondling,  and  otherwise  pleasing  the  clubmen— more  often  than  not  fell  to 
the  women,  the  beds,  the  treadmills,  or  the  false  signposts,  or  if  they  escaped 
those  as  well,  to  the  next  ring  of  guards,  and  so  forth.  The  lucky  few  who 
by  some  one  or  combination  of  these  techniques  passed  safely  through 
the  farthest  obstacles  were  applauded  mightily  by  the  rest,  and  it  some- 
times happened  that  the  very  noise  of  this  applause  sufficed  to  make 
the  climber  lose  his  grip  on  the  slippery  alabaster  and  plunge  feet  foremost 
into  the  valley  again.  Others  who  neared  the  summit  were  felled  by 
rocks  from  the  same  hands  that  had  earlier  applauded,  and  still  others 
were  not  stoned  but  merely  forgotten.  Of  the  very,  very  few  who  remained 
fairly  secure,  some  owed  their  tenure  to  the  heavy  pink  mists  that  obscured 
them  as  targets;  others  to  the  simple  bulk  of  the  peak  on  which  they  sat, 
and  others  to  the  grapes  and  China  oranges  that  they  flung  upon  demand 
to  the  envious  crowd  below. 

The  most  important  thing,  of  course,  was  to  choose  the  proper  mountain 
in  the  first  place,  but  since  by  no  amount  of  inquiry  could  he  gain  any 
certain  information,  Ebenezer  at  length  chose  arbitrarily  and  began  to 
climb  with  the  rest;  doubtless,  he  reasoned,  one  learned  as  one  climbed, 
and  in  any  case,  to  reach  the  summit  of  either  would  be  accomplishment 
enough.  The  first  thing  he  discovered,  however,  was  that  the  obstacles  were 
infinitely  more  formidable  face  to  face  than  when  viewed  from  afar  as  a 
non-climber:  the  ring  of  club-men,  when  he  reached  them,  were  uglier 
and  more  threatening;  the  women  beyond  them,  and  the  couches,  more 
alluring;  and  the  signposts  quite  authentic  in  appearance.  It  was,  in  fact, 
all  he  could  do  to  muster  courage  enough  to  lunge  at  the  nearest  guards; 
but  no  sooner  was  he  poised  for  the  attempt  than  a  lordly  voice  commanded 
his  chair  to  raise  him  to  the  peak,  and  without  having  climbed  at  all  he 
found  himself  sitting  among  a  group  of  solitary  men  on  a  lofty  pinnacle  of 
the  mountain. 

He  singled  out  one  of  the  oldest  and  wisest-looking,  who  was  engaged 
in  paring  his  toenails.  "I  say,  sir,  you'll  think  me  ridiculous  to  ask,  but  might 
you  tell  me  which  mountain  this  is?" 

*Te  have  me  there,"  the  ancient  replied.  "Sometimes  I  think  'tis  one, 
sometimes  the  other/'  He  chuckled  and  added  in  a  stage  whisper:  "Some- 
times I  think  they're  both  the  same.  What  doth  it  matter?" 

"How  did  you  get  here,  if  I'm  not  too  bold?"  Ebenezer  asked  further. 

"Ah,  that  was  no  chore  at  all/'  the  old  man  said.  "I  was  here  when 
the  mountain  grew,  me  and  my  cronies,  and  we  went  up  with  it.  They'll 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [481  ] 

never  knock  us  down— but  they  might  raise  us  so  high  they  can't  see  us 
any  more/' 

"They're  applauding  you  down  there,  you  know/' 

The  old  man  shrugged  his  shoulders,  Burlingame-like.  "I  suppose  they 
are,  though  ye  can't  hear  'em  so  well  up  here.  Tis  the  altitude  and  the  thin- 
ness of  the  air,  I've  always  thought,  but  I  care  not  a  fart  one  way  or  the 
other." 

<rWell,"  said  Ebenezer,  made  a  bit  uncomfortable  by  the  man's  want 
of  enthusiasm,  "I  surely  envy  you.  What  a  view  you  have  from  here!  The 
people  look  so  small!" 

"'Tis  in  sooth  a  pleasant  view/'  the  old  man  admitted.  'Ye  can  see 
well-nigh  the  entire  picture,  and  it  all  looks  much  alike;  tell  ye  the  truth, 
I  get  tired  looking.  'Tis  more  comfortable  to  sit  here  than  to  climb,  if 
comfort's  what  ye  like,  albeit  those  slopes  are  wondrous  slick.  Climb  if  ye 
feel  like  climbing,  says  I,  and  don't  if  ye  don't.  There's  really  naught  in 
in  the  world  up  here  but  clever  music;  ye'll  take  pleasure  in't  if  ye've  been 
reared  to  like  that  sort  of  thing/' 

"Oh,  I  always  did  like  music!" 

"Really?"  asked  the  old  man  without  interest. 

Their  conversation  seemed  to  have  reached  an  impasse;  Ebenezer 
leaned  down  to  look  at  the  strugglers  far  below. 

"'Sbody,  but  aren't  they  silly-looking!"  he  exclaimed.  "And  how  ill- 
mannered,  pushing  and  breaking  -wind  on  one  another!" 

"They've  little  else  to  do,"  the  old  man  observed. 

"But  there's  naught  here  to  climb  for:  you've  said  that  yourself!" 

"Aye,  nor  aught  anywhere  else,  either.  They'd  as  well  climb  mountains 
as  sit  still  and  die." 

"I'm  going  to  jump!"  Ebenezer  declared  suddenly.  "I've  no  wish  to  see 
these  things  a  moment  more!" 

"No  reason  why  ye  oughtn't,  nor  any  why  ye  ought." 

The  Laureate  made  no  further  move  to  jump,  but  sat  on  the  edge  of 
the  peak  and  sighed.  "  Tis  all  most  frightfully  empty,  is't  not?" 

"Empty  indeed,"  the  old  man  said,  "but  there's  naught  o'  good  or  bad 
in  that.  Why  sigh?" 

"Why  not?"  asked  Ebenezer. 

"But  why?"  repeated  the  old  man. 

"Why  not?" 

"Why  not  indeed?"  the  old  man  sighed,  and  Ebenezer  found  himself 
in  a  bed  and  Richard  Sowter  bending  over  him. 


[  482  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"St.  Wilgef  ortis's  beard,  here  is  our  bridegroom  at  long  last!  Doc  Sowter's 
oil-o'-mallow  ne'er  yet  let  mortal  die!" 

"Marsh-mallow  my  sweet  arse,"  said  one  of  the  kitchen-women,  who  ap- 
peared beside  the  bed  and  regarded  the  poet  with  curiosity.  "  Twas  St. 
Susie's  thistle-physic  brought  him  back." 

Sowter  counted  Ebenezer's  pulse  briefly  and  then  popped  a  spoonful 
of  some  syrup  into  his  mouth. 

"What  room  is  this,  and  why  am  I  in't?" 

"'Tis  one  o'  Bill  Smith's  guest  rooms,"  Sowter  said. 

"Opium!"  the  Laureate  cried,  and  sat  up  angrily.  "I  recall  it  now!" 

"Aye,  by  blear-eyed  old  St.  Otilic,  'twas  opium  Tim  Mitchell  gave  ye, 
so  ye'd  have  your  rest.  But  ye  was  that  ill  to  begin  with,  it  came  nigh  to 
fetching  ye  off."  . 

"He'll  be  the  death  of  me,  by  accident  or  design.  Where  is  he  now?" 

"Timothy?  Ah,  he's  long  gone,  back  to  his  father's  place  in  Calvert 
County." 

"False  friend!"  the  poet  muttered.  "If  he  -left  me  more  insulting  verses, 
I'll  bum  'em  unread!"  He  paused  a  moment  and  then  fell  back  in  anguish 
on  his  pillow.  "Ah  God,  it  escaped  me  I  was  wed!  Where  is  Susan,  and 
what  said  she  of  my  illness  on  our  wedding  night?  For  I  take  it  'tis  another 
day  .  .  ." 

The  kitchen  woman  laughed.  "Tis  plus  three  weeks  ye've  languished 
'twixt  life  and  death!" 

"As  for  Mrs.  Cooke,"  Sowter  said,  "I  can't  say  how  she  felt,  for  directly 
we  fetched  ye  to  bed  she  was  gone  for  Captain  Mitchell's  in  Timothy's 
keep.  Haply  he  did  your  labors  for  ye." 

"Back  to  Mitchell's!" 

"Aye,  she's  legal-bound  to  drive  his  swine,  ye  know." 

"Tis  too  much!"  Ebenezer  cried  indignantly.  "For  all  she's  a  shame- 
less hussy,  the  Laureate's  lady  shan't  drive  swine!  Fetch  her  here!" 

"Now,  don't  ye  fret,"  the  woman  soothed.  "Susie's  run  away  twice  al- 
ready, to  see  for  herself  what  health  ye  were  in  and  make  ye  her  wondrous 
thistle-physic.  I  doubt  not  she'll  do  the  same  again." 

"Three  weeks  a-swoon!  I  scarce  know  what  to  think!" 

"St.  Christopher's  nightmare,  friend,  think  o'  getting  well,"  Sowter  sug- 
gested cheerfully,  "then  ye  can  roger  Mistress  Susan  from  matins  to  vespers, 
if  ye  dare.  I'll  tell  your  father-in-law  thou'rt  back  to  life,  but  'twill  be  some 
weeks  yet  ere  ye  have  your  health  entire.  Many  a  poor  soul  hath  been 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  483  ] 

seasoned  to  his  grave/'  He  gathered  up  his  medical  paraphernalia  and  pre- 
pared to  leave.  "Ah  yes,  here  is  a  present  Timmy  Mitchell  left  ye." 

"My  notebook!"  the  Laureate  exclaimed;  Sowter  handed  him  the  famil- 
iar green-backed  ledger,  now  warped,  worn,  and  soiled  from  its  peregrina- 
tions. 

"Aye,  ye  lost  it  in  the  inn  at  Cambridge,  and  Tim  brought  it  out  when 
last  he  came  for  Susan.  He  said  ye  might  have  verses  to  write  in't  whilst 
ye  rest  your  six  months  out/' 

"Ah  God,  I  thought  'twas  stolen  with  my  clothes!"  He  clasped  it  with 
much  emotion.  "  Tis  an  old  and  faithful  friend,  this  ledger-book— my  only 
one!" 

When  he  was  left  alone  he  found  himself  still  far  too  weak  in  body  and 
spirit  for  artistic  creation,  and  so  he  contented  himself  with  reading  the 
products  of  his  past— all  of  which  seemed  strangely  remote  to  him  now.  He 
could,  in  fact,  identify  himself  much  more  readily  with  the  stained  and 
battered  notebook  than  with  such  couplets  as: 

Ye  ask,  What  eat  our  merry  Band 
En  Route  to  lovely  MARYLAND? 

which  seemed  as  foreign  to  him  as  if  they  were  another  man's  work.  Since 
he  had  happened  to  begin  with  the  most  recent  entry  and  thence  to  work 
toward  the  front  of  the  book,  the  last  thing  he  read  was  a  note  for  his 
projected  Marylandiad,  made  while  his  audience  with  Lord  Baltimore  (that 
is  to  say,  Burlingame)  was  still  fresh  in  his  memory:  MARYLANDS  Ex- 
cellencies are  peerless,  it  read;  her  Inhabitants  are  the  most  gracious,  their 
Breeding  unmatch'd;  her  Dwelling-places  are  the  grandest;  her  Inns  &  Or- 
dinaries  the  most  courteous  and  comfortable;  her  Fields  the  richest;  her 
Courts  &  Laws  the  most  majestic;  her  Commerce  the  most  prosperous, 
&  cet.,  &  cet.  The  note  was  subscribed,  in  Ebenezer's  own  hand,  E.  C., 

Gent7  pt  &  Lt  Of  M^ 

He  lay  back  and  closed  his  eyes;  his  head  throbbed  from  the  small  exer- 
tion of  perusing  his  work.  "I'faith!"  he  said  to  himself.  "What  price  this 
laureateship!  Will  I  sing  these  lies,  so  to  write  P*  &  U  of  Maryland  after 
my  name?  Gracious  folk!  Grand  dwellings  and  hostelries!  Majestic  courts- 
of-law!  Out  on't!  Here's  naught  but  scoundrels  and  perverts,  hovels  and 
brothels,  corruption  and  poltroonery!  What  glory,  to  be  singer  of  such  a 
sewer!" 

Thus  raged  the  poet,  while  memories  of  his  every  trial  came  back  to 
him  as  fresh  as  if  they  were  events  of  the  hour  just  past.  The  more  he  re- 


[484]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

called,  the  more  his  anguish  became  infused  with  wrath,  until  at  length, 
despite  his  weariness,  he  ripped  from  the  ledger  his  entire  stock  of  sea-verses, 
and  using  the  quill  and  ink  provided  by  his  host  he  wrote  on  the  virgin 
paper  thus  exposed: 

Condemned  by  Fate,  to  wayward  Curse, 
Of  Friends  unkind,  and  empty  Purse, 
Plagues  worse  than  fill'd  Pandoras  Box, 
I  took  my  Leave  of  Albions  Rocks, 
With  heavy  Heart,  concern' d  that  I 
Was  forc'd  my  native  Soil  to  fly, 
And  the  old  World  must  bid  Good-Vye. 

No  sooner  were  these  lines  set  down  than  more  came  rushing  unbidden 
to  his  fancy,  and  though  he  was  not  strong  enough  at  the  time  to  write 
them  out,  he  conceived  then  and  there  a  momentous  project  to  occupy 
him  during  the  weeks  ahead— which,  should  he  find  no  means  of  regain- 
ing his  estate,  might  well  be  his  last  on  earth.  He  would  versify  his  voyage 
to  Maryland  from  beginning  to  end,  just  as  he  had  planned  before,  but 
so  far  from  writing  a  panegyric,,  he  would  scourge  the  Province  with 
the  lash  of  Hudibrastic  as  a  harlot  is  scourged  at  the  public  post,  catalogue 
her  every  wickedness,  and  expose  her  every  trap  laid  for  the  trusting,  the 
unwary,  the  innocent! 

"Thus  might  others  be  instructed  by  my  loss,"  he  reflected  grimly.  "But 

stay "  He  remembered  the  details  of  his  abuse  at  the  hands  of  the 

Poseidon's  crew,  the  rape  of  the  Cyprian,  Burlingame's  pig,  and  other 
indelicate  features  of  his  adventure.  "  'Twill  ne'er  be  printed." 

For  some  moments  he  was  bitterly  discouraged,  for  this  reflection  implied 
a  cruel  paradox:  the  very  wickedness  of  one's  afflictions  can  prevent  one's 
avenging  them  by  public  exposure.  But  he  soon  saw  a  means  to  circumvent 
that  difficulty, 

"I  shall  make  the  piece  a  fiction!  I'll  be  a  tradesman,  say— -nay,  a  factor 
that  comes  to  Maryland  on's  business,  with  every  good  opinion  of  the 
country,  and  is  swindled  of  his  goods  and  property.  All  my  trials  I'll  recon- 
ceive  to  suit  the  plot  and  alter  just  enough  to  pass  the  printer!" 

The  sequence  instantly  unfolded  in  his  imagination,  and  he  made  a  quick 
prose  outline  lest  it  slip  away.  He  could  do  no  more  just  then;  exhausted 
by  the  effort,  he  slept  for  several  hours  dreamlessly.  However,  when  he 
reawakened,  the  vision  was  still  clear  in  his  mind,  and  what  was  more,  the 
Hudibrastic  couplets  wherewith  he  meant  to  render  it  began  springing 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  485  ] 

readily  to  hand.  He  could  scarcely  wait  to  launch  into  composition:  as  soon 
as  he  was  strong  enough  he  left  his  bed,  but  only  because  the  writing 
desk  in  his  chamber  was  more  comfortable  to  work  at;  there  he  spent  day 
after  day,  and  week  after  week,  setting  down  his  long  poem.  So  jealous  was 
he  of  his  time  that  he  rebuffed  the  curiosity  and  occasional  solicitude  of 
Smith,  Sowter,  and  the  kitchen-women;  he  demanded— and,  somewhat  to 
his  surprise,  received—his  meals  at  his  desk,  and  never  left  his  room  except 
to  take  health-walks  in  the  late  October  and  November  sun.  All  thoughts 
of  suicide  departed  from  him  for  the  time,  as  did,  on  the  other  hand,  all 
thoughts  of  regaining  his  lost  estate.  He  was  not  disturbed  or  even  curious 
about  the  absence  of  any  word  from  Henry  Burlingame.  When,  a  week 
or  ten  days  after  his  awakening  from  coma,  his  legal  wife  Susan  Warren 
reappeared  at  Maiden,  he  thanked  her  brusquely  for  her  aid  in  nursing 
him  back  to  health,  but  although  he  understood  from  the  kitchen-women 
that  at  Mitchell's  and  Smith's  direction  she  had  become  a  prostitute  ex- 
clusively for  the  Indians,  he  neither  protested  her  activities  or  her  return 
to  Mitchell  on  the  one  hand,  nor  sought  annulment  of  his  marriage  on 
the  other. 

Maiden  itself  was  becoming  every  day  more  evidently  a  gambling 
house,  tavern,  brothel,  and  opium  den:  Susan  brought  the  brown  phials 
with  her  from  Calvert  County,  and  Mary  Mungummory— who,  the  poet 
learned,  had  previously  resisted  Mitchell's  efforts  to  draw  her  into  his 
organization— moved  in  with  her  entire  retinue  of  doxies  and  accepted  the 
office  of  madame  of  the  house.  Every  night  the  whole  point  bustled:  plant- 
ers came  from  all  over  Dorset  by  horse  and  wagon,  and  by  boat  from  Talbot 
County  as  well,  across  the  great  mouth  of  the  Choptank,  and  the  house 
rang  with  their  debauchery.  From  the  mid-county  fresh  marshes  and  even 
the  salt  marshes  of  the  lower  county,  twenty  and  thirty  miles  to  the  south- 
east, Abaco,  Wiwash,  and  Nanticoke  Indians  came  to  engage  Susan  and 
two  of  Mary  Mungummory's  least-favored  employees  in  a  tobacco-curing 
house  set  aside  for  the  purpose.  But  Ebenezer,  so  far  from  expressing  in- 
dignation, chagrin,  or  even  regret  at  this  state  of  affairs,  ignored  it  almost 
entirely.  He  walked  obliviously  past  the  gaming  tables,  through  the  rooms 
of  intoxicated,  narcotized,  and  lecherous  Marylanders,  and  across  the  to- 
bacco fields  where  knots  of  solemn  Indians  moved  toward  the  curing-house. 
He  soon  became  a  figure  of  fun  among  the  clients,  but  their  jests  met  with 
the  same  indifference  with  which  he  rewarded  Susan  when,  upon  his  entry 
into  a  room,  she  would  follow  him  with  troubled  and  inquiring  eyes. 


[486]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Throughout  November  he  labored  at  the  task  of  casting  into  rhyme  the 
sorry  episodes  of  his  journey: 

Freighted  with  Fools,  from  Plimouth  Sound, 
To  MARYLAND  our  Ship  was  bound; 
Where  we  arriv'd,  in  dreadful  Pain, 
Shock' d  by  the  Tenors  of  the  Main.  .  . 

He  recalled  his  first  encounter  with  the  planters  in  St.  Mary's  County, 
whom  he  had  mistaken  for  field  hands 

.  .  .  a  numerous  Crew, 
In  Shirts  and  Drawers  of  Scotch-cloth  blew, 
With  neither  Stocking,  Hat,  nor  Shoe  .  .  . 

— and  to  their  description  appended  the  couplets  written  long  before  under 
different  circumstances,  painful  now  to  remember: 

Figures,  so  strange,  no  GOD  designed 
To  be  a  Part  of  Human-kind: 
But  Wanton  Nature,  void  of  Rest, 
Moulded  the  brittle  Clay  in  Jest .  .  . 

Shifting  with  masterly  nonchalance  from  tetrametric  to  pentametric 
verses,  he  next  proceeded  to  flay  the  inhabitants  of  his  poetical  bailiwick 

.  .  .  that  Shore  where  no  good  Sense  is  Found, 
But  Conversation's  lost,  and  Manners  drown' d  .  .  . 

— and  thereafter  to  describe  in  turn,  once  more  in  four-footed  lines,  his 
trip  across  the  Patuxent  River  in  a  canoe: 

Cut  from  a  Poplar  tree,  or  Pine, 

And  fashion'd  like  a  Trough  for  Swine  .  .  . 

The  encounter  with  Susan's  herd  of  pigs: 

This  put  me  in  a  pannick  Fright, 
Lest  I  should  be  devour' d  quite  .  .  . 

His  lawful  wife  the  swine-maiden  herself: 

.  .  .  by  her  loose  and  sluttish  Dress, 
She  rather  seem'd  a  Bedlam-Bess  .  .  . 

His  fruitless  vigil  in  the  barnyard: 

Where,  riding  on  a  Limb  astride, 
Night  and  the  Branches  did  me  hide, 
And  I  the  De'el  and  Snake  defy'd  .  .  . 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  487  ] 

the  spectacle  of  the  open-air  assizes: 

.  .  .the  Crowds  did  there  resort, 

Which  Justice  made,  and  Law,  their  Sport, 

In  their  Sagacious  County  Court  .  .  . 

The  trial: 

The  planting  Rabble  being  met, 
Their  drunken  Worships  likewise  sat, 
Cryer  proclaims  the  Noise  shoud  cease, 
And  streight  the  Lawyers  broke  the  Peace, 
Wrangling  for  Plaintiff  and  Defendant, 
I  thought  they  ne'er  -tfoud  make  an  End  on't, 
With  Nonsense,  Stuff,  and  false  Quotations 
With  brazen  Lies,  and  Allegations  .  .  . 

Judge  Hammaker  himself: 

.  .  .  -who,  to  the  Shame, 

Of  all  the  Bench,  cou'd  write  his  'Name  .  .  . 

His  night  in  the  corncrib: 

Just  then  beginning  to  be  drunk, 

As  from  the  Company  I  shrunk: 

To  every  Room  and  Nook  I  crept, 

In  hopes  I  might  have  somewhere  slept; 

But  all  the  Bedding  was  possest, 

By  one  or  other  drunken  Guest; 

But  after  looking  long  about, 

I  found  an  antient  Corn-loft  out; 

Glad  that  I  might  in  Quiet  sleep, 

And  there  my  Bones  unfractur'd  keep: 

I  lay  me  down  secur'd  from  Fray, 

And  soundly  snor'd  till  break  o'  Day; 

When  waking  fresh,  I  sat  upright, 

And  found  my  Shoes  were  vanished  quite, 

Hat,  Wig,  and  Stockings,  all  were  fled, 

From  this  extended  Indian  Bed  .  .  . 

The  kitchen-whores  at  Maiden: 

.  .  .  a  jotty  Female  Crew9 
Were  deep  engagd  at  Lanterloo, 
In  Nightrails  white,  with  dirty  Mien, 
Such  Sights  are  scarce  in  England  seen: 
I  thought,  them  first  some  Witches,  bent 
On  black  Designs,  in  dire  Convent; 

.  .  .  who,  with  affected  Air, 
Had  nicely  learn1 d  to  Curse  and  Swear  .  .  . 


[  488  ]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

His  illness: 

J  felt  a  Fever  intermitting, 

A  fiery  Pulse  beat  in  my  Veins, 

From  cold  1  felt  resembling  Pains; 

This  cursed  Seasoning  I  remember 

Lasted  .  .  .  till  cold  December; 

Nor  cou'd  it  then  it's  Quarter  shift, 

Until  by  Carduus  turn'd  adrift: 

And  had  my  doct'ress  wanted  Skill, 

Or  Kitch'n-Physick  at  her  Will, 

My  Father's  Son  had  lost  his  Lands  .  .  . 

And  his  exploitation  by  the  versatile  Richard  Sowter: 

.  .  .  and  ambodexter  Quack, 
Who  learnedly  had  got  the  Knack 
Of  giving  Clysters,  making  Pitts, 
Of  filling  Bonds,  and  forging,  Wilk  .  .  . 

When  at  last  he  had  recounted  the  sum  of  his  misfortunes  by  means 
of  the  sot-weed-factor  allegory,  he  imagined  himself  fleeing  to  an  outbound 
ship,  and  so  concluded  ferociously: 

Embarqu'd  and  waiting  for  a  Wind, 

I  leave  this  dreadful  Curse  behind. 

May  Canniballs  transported  o'er  the  Sea 

Prey  on  these  Slaves,  as  they  have  done  on  me; 

May  never  Merchant's  trading  Sails  explore 

This  cruel,  this  Inhospitable  Shoar; 

But  left  abandon'd  by  the  World  to  starve, 

May  they  sustain  the  Fate  they  well  deserve: 

May  they  turn  Salvage,  or  as  Indians  wild, 

From  Trade,  Converse,  and  Happiness  exil'd; 

Recreant  to  Heaven,  may  they  adore  the  Sun, 

And  into  Pagan  Superstitions  run 

For  Vengeance  ripe — 

May  Wrath  Divine  then  lay  these  Regions  vtast 

Where  no  Man's  Faithful,  nor  a  Woman  chastl 

The  heat  of  his  sustained  creative  passion  must  have  either  enlarged  his 
talent  or  softened  his  critical  acumen,  for  never  before  had  he  felt  so  potent, 
so  assured,  so  poetic,  as  in  the  composition  of  this  satire.  During  the  first 
two  weeks  of  December  he  smoothed  and  polished  it— adjusting  an  iamb 
here,  tuning  the  clatter  of  a  Hudibrastic  there,  until  on  St.  Lucy's  day, 
December  13,  he  was  prepared  to  deem  the  piece  truly  finished.  At  its  head 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [489] 

he  wrote:  The  Sot-Weed  Factor:  Or,  a  Voyage  to  Maryland.  A  Satyr.  In 
which  is  describ'd,  the  Laws,  Government,  Courts  and  Constitutions  of 
the  Country;  and  also  the  Buildings,  Feasts,  Frolicks,  Entertainments  and 
Drunken  Humours  of  the  Inhabitants  of  that  Port  of  America.  And  at  the 
foot,  with  grand  contempt,  he  affixed  his  full  title— Ebenezer  Cooke,  Gen- 
tleman, Poet  &  Laureat  of  the  Province  of  Maryland— in  full  recognition 
that  with  the  poem's  publication,  should  he  ever  send  it  to  a  printer,  he 
would  forfeit  any  chance  of  receiving  that  title  in  fact. 

Publication,  however,  did  not  especially  interest  him  at  the  moment. 
He  put  by  his  quill  and  surveyed  the  thousand  and  more  lines  of  manuscript 
in  his  ledger. 

"By  Lucy's  bloody  thorn,  'tis  writ!"  he  sighed,  mocking  Sowter's  inclina- 
tion to  swear  in  saintly  symbols.  "And  there's  an  end  on't!" 

He  had  not  the  slightest  idea  what  would  happen  next— where  he  should 
go  or  what  do— nor  had  he  just  then  the  smallest  worry.  To  the  bone  he 
felt  the  pleasure  of  large  and  sure  accomplishment,  which  is  ever  one  part 
joy  and  nine  relief;  benediction-like,  it  soothed  his  spirit,  and  relaxed  his 
every  muscle  like  a  balm.  Indeed,  he  was  possessed  with  an  urge  to  close 
his  eyes  and  sleep  where  he  sat  at  his  writing  desk;  but  the  early  winter 
night  had  only  just  darkened— it  was,  in  fact,  not  an  hour  since  supper— 
and  he  felt  a  contrary  desire  to  celebrate  in  some  small  way,  not  The  Sot- 
Weed  Factor  itself,  whose  existence  was  its  own  festivity,  but  the  end  of 
the  labors  that  had  brought  it  to  birth. 

"A  glass  of  rum's  the  thing/'  he  decided,  and  went  downstairs  to  where 
the  evening's  activities  were  just  getting  started.  His  intention  was  to  go 
to  the  kitchen,  that  being  the  only  room  at  Maiden,  other  than  his  own 
chamber,  where  he  could  be  reasonably  confident  of  his  reception;  but  on 
his  way  he  encountered  William  Smith  and  Richard  Sowter,  who  had  be* 
come  fast  friends,  perhaps  even  business  associates,  since  the  fall. 

"How  now,  by  Kenelm's  dove!"  the  latter  said  on  seeing  him.  "Here  is 
our  poet." 

"Speak  of  the  devil,"  Smith  observed.  "Thou'rt  looking  hale  enough, 
and  pleased,  this  night." 

"I  am  both,"  Ebenezer  admitted,  "with  little  cause  for  either."  The  truth 
was,  the  mere  sight  of  his  undoers  had  cost  him  much  of  the  pleasant 
sense  of  well-being  with  which  he'd  left  his  finished  manuscript.  "You  were 
speaking  of  me?" 

"Aye,  that  we  were,"  Smith  said.  "  Twas  a  general  discussion  on  points 
o'  law  we  were  having,  and  I  brought  ye  in  by  way  of  illustration." 


[49°]  THE   SOT-WEED   FACTOR 

"Mr.  Smith  here  raised  the  question/'  Sowter  joined  in,  "whether,  in  a 
contract  made  to  complete  a  job  o'  work  within  a  given  time,  the  instru- 
ment becomes  null  and  void  directly  the  job  is  done  or  remains  in  force 
regardless  till  the  designated  time  runs  out.  My  answer  was,  it  hangs 
altogether  on  the  wording  of  the  contract,  whether  its  expiration  hath  a 
single  or  alternative  contingency." 

Ebenezer  smiled  uncertainly.  "That  seems  a  reasonable  reply,  but  I  am 
no  lawyer." 

"Nor  am  I,"  Smith  said,  "and  so  to  get  a  fairer  notion  of  the  thing,  I 
asked  him  to  apply  it  to  that  contract  drawn  'twixt  thee  and  me,  regarding 
your  ill  health " 

"Go  to  the  point,"  Ebenezer  said  stiffly.  "I  see  your  purpose." 

"Ah,  now,  I  have  no  wish  to  cheat  ye  of  your  due,"  Smith  insisted.  "It 
hath  been  an  honor  and  a  pleasure  to  have  the  Laureate  Poet  for  house 
guest,  and  nurse  him  back  to  health.  Yet  the  fact  is,  as  well  ye  can  observe, 
I've  a  thriving  little  hostelry  in  Maiden,  and  an  idle  room  is  to  an  inn- 
keeper like  a  fallow  field  to  a  sot-weed  planter." 

"In  short,  now  I'm  on  my  feet  once  more  you  wish  me  gone,  so  that 
your  whores  can  ply  their  trade  upon  my  bed." 

"Stay,  calm  thy  heat,"  Sowter  urged.  "  Tis  my  opinion,  as  your  physician, 
thou'rt  as  well  a  man  as  ever  braided  Catherine's  tresses,  and  I  have  said 
farther,  as  Mr.  Smith's  attorney,  his  contract  in  the  matter  hath  alternative 
contingencies  for  expiration;  namely,  the  restoration  of  your  health  or  six 
months  of  bed,  board,  and  proper  care." 

"Say  no  more,"  Ebenezer  said,  "the  rest  is  clear,  and  I'll  not  contest  it. 
If  you'll  but  grant  me  two  small  favors— nay,  three— you  will  not  see  me 
on  the  morrow." 

"Nay,  hear  me  out " 

^  "Have  no  fear  of  these  requests,"  Ebenezer  went  on  contemptuously. 
"They'll  not  interfere  in  any  way  with  your  profit.  The  first  is  that  you 
give  me  a  pot  of  rum,  wherewith  to  celebrate  a  poem  I've  written; 
the  second  is  that  you  send  the  poem  to  a  certain  London  printer,  whose 
address  I  shall  give  you;  and  the  third  is  that  you  lend  me  a  loaded  pistol, 
to  use  when  the  rum  is  gone." 

"A  turd  on  the  pistol,"  Smith  declared.  "Thou'rt  no  good  Catholic, 
methinks,  e'en  to  speak  oft,  and  ye  spring  too  quickly  to  the  worst  ex- 
pedient. I  have  no  wish  to  turn  ye  out  at  all " 

"What?" 

"St.  Dunstan's  gold  tongs,"  Sowter  laughed,  "'tis  what  I  tried  to  tell 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  4Q1  ] 

re!  Mr.  Smith  must  have  your  chamber  for  his  business,  but  so  far  from 
vishing  ye  ill,  he  hath  proposed  to  be  your  patron,  as't  were."  He  explained 
:hat  the  cooper  had  directed  him  to  draw  up  a  remarkable  indenture-bond, 
:o  sign  which  would  entitle  the  poet  to  free  room  and  board  in  the  serv- 
mts'  quarters  indefinitely,  and  commit  him  only  to  a  nominal  amount  of 
:lerical  work. 

"  Twill  be  no  more  than  a  paper  to  write  or  endorse  on  occasion/'  Smith 
assured  him.  "The  balance  of  the  time  is  your  own,  to  versify  or  what  ye 
will." 

Ebenezer  shrugged.  "It  matters  not  to  me  one  way  or  the  other.  Draw 
up  your  bond,  and  I  shall  read  it." 

"I  have't  here  this  minute/'  Sowter  said,  producing  a  document  from 
his  coat.  "For  a  man  with  St.  Francis's  distemper,  like  yourself,  'tis  a  virtual 
sinecure,  I  swear!" 

The  opportunity  to  compose  more  poetry  was  in  truth  attractive  to  Eben- 
ezer, though  at  the  moment  he  had  no  ideas  whatever  for  future  poems. 
He  considered  also  the  possibility  that  Burlingame's  unexplained  absence 
might  have  to  do  with  some  scheme  for  undoing  Smith,  though  he  had 
come  rather  to  attribute  it  to  another,  perhaps  final,  desertion.  And  ulti- 
mately, of  course,  the  pistol  was  always  there  as  a  last  resort:  he  could  see  no 
great  loss  in  postponing  its  use  for  a  time.  Therefore,  after  reading  it 
cursorily  and  finding  its  provisions  to  be  as  Sowter  had  described,  he  signed 
both  copies  of  the  four-year  indenture  with  no  emotion  whatever. 

"Now  thou'rt  my  patron,"  he  said  to  Smith,  "haply  you'll  indulge  your 
protege  with  a  pot  of  rum." 

"No  pot,  but  an  entire  rundlet,"  the  cooper  answered  happily.  "And 
hi!  Yonder's  your  wedded  wife,  fresh-come  from  Mitchell's!" 

"Ye  look  well  chilled,  St.  Susie,"  Sowter  laughed.  "Warm  your  arse  here 
by  the  fire  and  take  a  dram  with  our  poet  ere  ye  set  to  work  in  the  curing- 
house:  your  father  hath  indented  him  to  four  years  o'  rhyming." 

"I'll  fetch  the  girls  in  from  the  kitchen,"  Smith  declared.  "We'll  have  a 
celebration  ere  the  night's  work  starts!" 

Susan  came  into  the  little  parlor  and  stared  at  Ebenezer  without  com- 
ment. 

"  Twas  that  or  the  pistol/'  he  said.  Something  in  her  expression  alarmed 
him,  and  his  tone  was  defensive.  Smith  reappeared  with  two  women  from 
the  kitchen;  when  the  drams  were  passed  round,  the  Frenchwoman  perched 
on  Sowter's  knees  and  the  other  on  Smith's  lap. 


[492]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"So  ye  fled  your  master  yet  again?"  Sowter  called  merrily  to  Susan. 
"I  swear  by  Martin's  pox,  he  keeps  a  light  hold  on  his  wenches!" 

"Aye,  I  fled  him/'  Susan  said,  not  joining  in  the  general  mirth. 

"And  did  you  find  another  such  fool  as  I,"  Ebenezer  inquired  acidly, 
"to  pay  your  escape  and  wait  your  pleasure  in  Mitchell's  barn?"  Whether 
because  her  wretched  appearance— she  was  shivering,  and  both  her  clothes 
and  her  face  were  more  ruined  than  ever— reminded  him  that  his  legal  wife 
was  a  pig-driver,  an  opium-eater,  and  the  lowest  sort  of  prostitute,  or  simply 
because  he  had  never  properly  thanked  her  for  nursing  him  back  to  health, 
the  strangeness  of  her  manner  made  him  feel  guilty  for  having  ignored 
her  during  the  composition  of  his  long  poem. 

"Aye,  I  found  another.  A  dotard  too  old  for  such  schemes,  says  I,  though 
there's  no  law  yet  against  dreaming."  Despite  the  levity  of  her  words,  both 
her  tone  and  her  expression  were  incongruously  grave.  "I  have  more  cock 
in  my  eye  than  he  hath  in  his  breeches,  and  I'm  not  cock-eyed.  A  be- 
spectacled old  fool,  he  was,  with  a  withered  arm." 

"Nay!"  Ebenezer  breathed.  "Tell  me  not  he  had  a  withered  arm!" 

"Aye,  and  he  did." 

"Yet  surely  'twas  his  left  arm  was  withered,  was't  not?" 

Susan  hesitated,  and  then  in  the  same  grave  voice  said,  "Nay,  as  I  think 
on't,  'twas  his  right:  he  sat  at  my  left  in  the  wagon  whilst  I  told  him  the 
tale  of  my  misfortune,  and  I  recall  he  was  obliged  to  reach  over  with  his 
far  arm  to  tweak  and  abuse  me." 

Ebenezer  felt  a  sudden  nausea.  "But  he  was  a  peasant,  for  all  that,"  he 
insisted.  "A  wheelwright,  belike,  or  teamster?" 

"Not  a  bit  oft.  'Twas  clear  from  his  clothes  and  carriage  he  was  a  gentle- 
man of  highest  quality,  and  he  said  he  had  arrived  that  very  day  from 
London." 

Tfaith,"  said  one  of  the  kitchen-women,  "ye'll  find  no  London  gentle- 
men in  the  curing-house,  Susie;  ye  should  have  let  him  swive  ye!" 

"Nay,  God!"  Ebenezer  cried,  so  mournfully  that  the  whole  company 
left  off  their  mirth  and  regarded  him  with  consternation.  "  Tis  I  he'll  swive, 
not  you!  That  man  was  Andrew  Cooke  of  Middlesex,  my  father,  come 
to  see  how  fares  his  son!  The  pistol!"  he  cried,  jumping  to  his  feet.  "There 
is  no  help  for't  now!" 

"Stay!"  Smith  commanded.  "Stop  him,  Susan!" 

"  'Tis  the  pistol!"  the  poet  shouted  again,  and  fled  for  his  chamber  be- 
fore anyone  could  detain  him. 


33:    THE  LAUREATE  DEPARTS  FROM  HIS  ESTATE 


SUCH  WAS  HIS  AGITATION  THAT  NOT  UNTIL  HE  WAS  IN  HIS  ROOM,  STILL 

lighted  by  a  candle  he  had  left  burning  on  the  writing  table,  did  the  Laure- 
ate recall  that  he  had  no  pistol  with  which  to  destroy  himself,  nor  even  a 
short-sword— his  own  having  been  stolen  along  with  the  rest  of  his  costume 
in  the  corncrib  and  never  returned  to  him.  He  heard  the  company  swarm- 
ing up  the  stairs  from  the  parlor,  and  threw  himself  in  despair  upon  his 
bed. 

The  first  to  reach  his  door  was  Susan;  she  took  one  look  at  him  and 
bade  the  others  stay  back.  "Let  me  speak  to  him/'  she  pleaded. 

"We'll  wait  below,"  Smith  grumbled.  "But  mind,  see  to't  there's  no 
trouble.  I  shan't  have  his  idle  brains  all  over  my  house." 

All  this  the  poet  heard  face  down  in  the  quilts.  Susan  closed  the  door 
behind  her  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  bed. 

"Do  ye  mean  to  blow  your  head  off?"  she  inquired. 

"  Tis  the  final  misfortune/'  he  answered  without  raising  his  head.  "I 
have  no  pistol,  nor  means  to  purchase  one.  Yell  not  be  widowed  this  eve- 
ning, so  it  seems." 

"Will  your  father's  wrath  be  so  terrible?" 

TChrist,  'tis  past  imagining!"  Ebenezer  groaned.  *Tet  e'en  were  he 
the  very  soul  of  mercy,  I  am  too  shamed  to  face  him." 

Susan  sighed.  "  Twill  be  passing  strange,  to  be  the  widow  of  a  man 
that  ne'er  hath  wifed  me." 

"Nor  ever  shall!"  Ebenezer  sat  up  angrily.  "Much  you  care,  with  your 
curing-house  salvages  and  your  opium!  Marry  you  my  friend  Henry  Burlin- 
game,  that  will  wife  you  with  your  swine— there's  a  match!" 

"The  world  is  strange  and  full  o'  wickedness,"  Susan  murmured. 

"So  at  least  is  this  verminous  province,  whose  delights  I  was  supposed 
to  sing!"  He  shook  his  head.  "Ah,  marry,  I  have  no  call  to  injure  you:  for- 
give my  words." 

"  Tis  a  long,  hard  fall  ye've  fallen,  but  prithee  speak  no  more  o'  pistols/' 
Susan  said.  "Flee,  if  ye  must,  and  start  again  elsewhere." 

"Where  flee?"  cried  Ebenezer.  "Better  the  pistol  than  another  day  in 
Maryland!" 


[494]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Back  to  England,  I  mean:  hide  yourself  till  the  fleet  sails,  and  thou'rt 
quit  of  your  father  for  good  and  all." 

''Very  good,"  the  Laureate  said  bitterly.  "And  shall  I  kiss  the  captain 
for  my  freight?" 

"Mr.  Cooke!"  Susan  whispered  suddenly.  She  leaned  over  him  and 
clutched  his  shoulders.  "Nay:  Ebenezer!  Husbandl" 

"What's  this?  What  are  you  doing?" 

"Stay,  hear  me!"  Susan  urged.  "  Tis  true  I'm  but  a  whore  and  scurvy 
night-bag,  and  ruined  by  ill-usage.  Tis  true  ye'd  small  choice  in  the  wedding 
of  me,  and  ye've  small  cause  to  love  me.  But  I  say  again  'tis  a  strange  life, 
and  full  o'  things  ye  little  dream  of:  not  all  is  as  ye  think,  my  dovel" 

"'Sheart!" 

"I  love  ye!"  she  hissed.  "Let's  fly  together  from  this  sink  o'  perdition 
and  begin  anew  in  England!  There's  many  a  trick  a  poor  man  can  play 
in  London,  and  I  know  the  bagful  of  'em!" 

"But— but  marry,"  Ebenezer  protested,  snatching  at  the  gentlest  excuse 
he  could  think  of.  "I've  not  one  fare,  let  alone  two!" 

Susan  was  not  daunted  in  the  least.  "  Tis  a  peddlepot  ye've  wed,"  she 
declared.  "I'd  as  well  turn  my  shame  to  our  advantage,  to  rid  us  o'  Mary- 
land forever." 

"What  is't  you  intend?" 

"I'll  hie  me  to  the  curing-house  anon,  and  whore  the  sum." 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head.  "  Tis  a  noble  plan,"  he  sighed.  "Such  a  whore- 
dom were  more  a  martyrdom,  methinks,  and  merits  awe.  But  I  cannot 

go" 

The  woman  released  him.  "Not  go?" 

"Nay,  not  though  I  changed  my  name  and  face  and  escaped  my  father's 
wrath  forever.  The  living  are  slaves  to  memory  and  conscience,  and  should 
we  flee  together,  the  first  would  plague  me  with  thoughts  of  Father  and 

my  sister  Anna,  while  the  second "  He  paused.  "I  cannot  say  it  less 

briefly  or  cruelly  than  this:  nine  months  ago  I  pledged  my  love  to  the  Lon- 
don girl  Joan  Toast  and  offered  her  my  innocence,  which  she  spurned.  Twas 
after  that  I  vowed  to  remain  as  virginal  as  a  priest  and  worship  the  god 
of  poetry.  This  Joan  Toast  had  a  lover,  that  was  her  pimp  as  well,  and 
albeit  'twas  on  his  account  my  father  sent  me  off  to  Maryland,  and  I  had 
every  cause  to  think  his  mistress  loathed  me,  yet  she  was  ever  in  my 
thoughts,  and  in  my  most  parlous  straits  thereafter,  I  never  broke  my  pledge. 
Think,  then,  how  moved  I  was  to  learn  that  she  had  followed  after  me,  out 
of  love!  I  had  resolved  to  wed  her,  and  make  her  mistress  of  my  estate,  and 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  495  1 

indeed  I'd  have  done  no  less  had  all  gone  well,  so  much  I  love  her!  Now 
Maiden's  mine  no  more,  and  my  sweet  Joan  is  disappeared  from  sight,  and 
whether  'twas  to  escape  marrying  a  wretched  pauper  she  flew,  or  to  join 
her  lover  McEvoy,  still  she  came  hither  on  my  account,  as  did  he.  How 
could  I  fly  with  you  to  London,  when  I  know  not  how  they  fare,  or  whether 
they  live  or  die?" 

Susan  commenced  weeping.  "Am  I  so  horrid  by  comparison  to  your 
Joan?  Nay,  don't  trouble  to  lie:  I  know  by  sight  the  beauty  of  her  face, 
and  the  loathesomeness  of  mine.  Little  d'ye  dream  how  jealous  I  am  of 
her!" 

"The  world  hath  used  you  hardly,"  Ebenezer  said. 

"Ye  know  not  half!  I  am  its  very  sign  and  emblem!" 

"And  yet  thou'rt  generous  and  valiant,  and  have  saved  both  Joan  Toast 
and  myself  from  death." 

Susan  grasped  his  arm.  "What  would  ye  say,  if  ye  learned  Joan  Toast 
was  in  this  very  house?" 

"What!"  Ebenezer  cried,  starting  up.  "How  can  that  be,  and  I've  not 
seen  her?  What  is't  you  say?" 

"She  is  in  this  house  this  very  moment,  and  hath  been  since  she  fled 
from  Captain  Mitchell!  Here  is  proof."  She  drew  from  her  bosom  a  neck- 
lace of  dirty  string,  on  which  was  threaded  the  fishbone  ring  presented  to 
Ebenezer  by  Quassapelagh,  the  Anacostin  King. 

"I'God,  the  ring  I  gave  you  for  her  fare!  Where  is  she?" 

"Stay,  Eben,"  Susan  cautioned.  "Ye've  not  heard  all  ye  must  before  ye 
see  her." 

"A  fart  for't!  Don't  try  to  keep  me  from  her!" 

"  'Tis  by  her  own  instruction,"  Susan  said,  and  blocked  the  door  to  the 
hallway.  "Why  is't,  d'ye  think,  she  hath  not  shown  herself  ere  now?" 

"Marry,  I  know  not,  nor  dare  I  think!  But  I  die  to  see  her!" 

"  Tis  only  fit,  for  she  hath  done  no  less  to  see  you." 

Ebenezer  stopped  as  if  smitten  by  a  hammer.  Tears  sprang  to  his  eyes, 
and  he  was  obliged  to  take  the  nearest  seat— which  happened  to  be  the 
one  at  his  writing  desk— before  he  fell. 

"Aye,  she  is  dead!"  Susan  said.  "Dead  of  French  pox,  opium,  and  d&- 
spair!  I  saw  her  die,  and  'twas  not  pretty." 

"Ah  God!"  Ebenezer  moaned,  his  features  in  a  turmoil.  "Ah  God!" 

"Ye  know  already  how  she  was  taken  with  love  for  ye,  and  for  your 
innocence,  after  she  had  spumed  ye  in  your  room;  and  ye  know  she  turned 
her  back  on  John  McEvoy  when  he  wrote  that  letter  to  your  father.  A  dream 


[496]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

got  hold  of  her,  such  as  any  whore  is  prone  to,  to  live  her  life  with  you  in 
perfect  chastity,  and  it  so  possessed  her  that  anon  she  vowed  to  follow  ye 
to  Maryland— the  more  inasmuch  as  'twas  on  her  account  ye  were  sent 
thither— and  she  fondly  hoped  ye'd  have  her  for  your  wife  and  sister.  But 
she  had  no  money  for  her  freight,  and  so  for  all  she'd  sworn  to  have  no 
more  o'  whoring,  it  seemed  she  was  obliged  to  swive  her  fare." 

"  'Sheart,  how  this  news  wounds  me!"  Ebenezer  cried. 

"  Tis  joyous  by  comparison  with  the  rest,"  Susan  declared.  "  Tis  com- 
mon knowledge  that  a  pretty  girl  can  swive  most  men  round  her  finger, 
and  any  man  at  all  if  she  hath  fancy  enough  and  spirit  in  her  sporting 
—such  is  the  world,  and  there's  no  help  for't.  'Twas  Joan  Toast's  plan 
to  find  a  willing  sea  captain,  as  hath  many  another  lass,  who'd  let  her 
warm  his  cabin  the  first  week  out  in  payment  for  her  freight;  yet  she  was 
so  loath  to  play  the  whore  again,,  she  devised  another  scheme,  the  which 
was  far  more  perilous  and  unpleasant  in  every  way,  but  had  the  single 
merit  that  if  it  did  not  fail,  she'd  reach  the  Maryland  shore  unswived. 
She  had  heard  it  said  along  the  wharves  that  whores  were  as  scarce  in 
America  as  Jews  in  the  College  o'  Cardinals— so  much  so,  that  any  lass 
who  wished  could  cross  the  ocean  free  of  charge  in  a  certain  ship,  provided 
that  when  she  got  there  she  would  hire  herself  to  one  or  another  of  the 
whoremasters  who  met  the  boat." 

Ebenezer  groaned.  "I  dare  not  let  my  fancy  run  ahead!" 

"Her  new  plan  was,  to  sign  aboard  this  vessel,  that  carried  no  other 
passengers  but  friskers,  and  so  reach  America  unswived;  once  ashore,  she'd 
bend  her  wit  to  find  some  means  of  escaping  her  obligation— nor  did  that 
prospect  much  alarm  her,  for  so  eager  were  the  provinces  for  women,  and 
so  eager  the  women  for  the  high  fees  they  could  charge,  there  was  no 
contract  or  other  writ  to  bind  'em  to  their  pledge." 

"This  ship/'  Ebenezer  broke  in.  "I  tremble  to  hear  its  name,  but  if  she 
told  you,  I  must  know't" 

"'Twas  called  the  Cyprian— the  same  that  was  attacked  by  pirates  off 
the  Maryland  coast  and  all  her  women,  save  one,  fetched  to  the  rail  and 
raped!" 

"Save  one?  B'm'faith,  then  dare  I  hope " 

"Ye  dare  not,"  Susan  said.  "Joan  Toast  was  the  one,  in  sooth,  that  was 
not  ravished  at  the  rail,  but  the  reason  for't  is,  she  fled  aloft  to  the  mizzen- 
rigging!" 

"FChrist,  i'Christ,  'twas  her!"  Ebenezer  cried.  "Know,  Susan,  that  these 
were  the  pirates  of  Captain  Thomas  Pound,  the  same  that  some  time  earlier 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [49?] 

had  taken  my  valet  and  myself  from  the  Poseidon  at  John  Coode's  behest! 
I  know  not  how  much  Joan  told  you,  but  I  must  make  confession  now 
ere  I  perish  of  remorse:  I  was  witness  to  this  very  piracy;  I  saw  the  Cyprian 
women  bound  up  along  the  rail;  I  saw  a  hapless  maid  break  free  and  scram- 
ble up  the  mizzen  ratlines,  though  I  little  dreamed  then  who  she  was;  I 
saw  the  Moor  go  after  her " 

"That  Moor!"  Susan  said  with  a  shudder.  "I  know  him  well  from  her 
relation,  and  grow  sick  and  cold  at  the  memory!  But  hear  the  story " 

"I  am  not  done  with  my  confession/'  Ebenezer  protested. 

"'Nor  have  ye  aught  to  confess,  that  is  not  known  to  me  already/'  Susan 
said  grimly,  and  resumed  her  tale.  "As  soon  as  the  pirates  showed  their 
colors,  the  captain  advised  the  women  not  to  resist  but  rather  to  submit 
with  right  good  will,  in  hopes  that  once  the  pirates  had  swived  their  lust 
away,  they'd  leave  'em  with  a  whole  skin  and  a  floating  ship.  But  two  girls 
hid  in  the  farthest  crannies  of  the  bilge:  Joan  Toast  because  she'd  vowed 
to  stay  chaste  as  a  nun,  and  another  girl  so  ruined  with  claps  and  poxes 
that  she  had  but  a  few  more  days  to  live  and  wished  to  go  to  her  grave 
unraped." 

"And  there  the  Moor  discovered  them!  I  am  ill!" 

"There  he  found  'em/'  Susan  affirmed.  "  Twas  what  every  lass  shudders 
at  in  dreams:  they  crouched  there  in  the  dark,  with  the  sounds  o'  lewd 
attack  above  their  heads,  and  then  the  hatchway  to  the  bilge  was  opened, 
and  the  monstrous  Moor  came  in!  He  had  a  taper  in  his  hand,  and  in  its 
light  they  saw  his  face  and  his  huge  black  body.  When  he  spied  the  two 
women  he  gave  a  great  snort  like  a  bull  and  leaped  upon  the  nearest, 
that  happened  to  be  the  one  not  far  from  death.  Twas  Joan's  bad  luck  as 
well  as  his  he  could  not  see  the  wench's  pox  by  candlelight,  for  anon  when 
he  was  done  and  went  for  Joan,  she  would  have  two  miseries  instead 
of  one  to  fear." 

Ebenezer  could  only  moan  and  shake  his  head. 

"She  made  to  flee  whilst  he  was  going  at  the  sick  girl,  but  he  caught 
her  by  the  ankle  and  knocked  her  such  a  swingeing  clout  she  knew  no 
more  till  he  was  carrying  her  and  another  up  the  ladderway  to  the  deck. 
When  she  managed  to  break  free  and  climb  the  rigging,  as  ye  witnessed, 
'twas  her  last  fond  hope  he  would  give  o'er  the  chase  and  take  his  pleasure 
with  the  flossies  on  the  deck;  but  ere  she  reached  the  top  the  roll  and 
pitch  o'  the  rig  so  terrified  her,  she  was  obliged  to  stop  climbing  and  thrust 
her  arms  and  legs  through  like  a  fly  in  a  web.  Twas  there  the  great  Moor 


[498]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

cracked  her  till  she  fainted  dead  away,  and  'twas  there  she  hung  till  Heaven 
knows  when— ravished,  poxed,  and  seeded  with  the  monster's  seed!" 

"Ah,  nolw 

"No  less,"  Susan  confirmed.  "Albeit  'twas  not  made  plain  till  some 
time  after,  the  Moor  had  got  her  with  child.  Yet  all  this  barbarous  usage 
was  as  naught  beside  her  next  misfortune:  she  had  scarce  thrown  off  her 
swoon  and  found  herself  still  hanging  in  the  rigging,  when  she  heard  another 
pirate  climbing  up  and  calling  lewdly  to  her  as  he  climbed.  She  resolved 
to  leap  into  the  ocean  if  'twas  the  Moor,  but  when  she  turned  to  look " 

"Twas  I,"  Ebenezer  wept,  "and  may  I  fry  in  Hell  for't!  For  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I  was  possessed  with  lust  like  any  rutting  goat,  and  I  had 
no  hope  of  seeing  Joan  Toast  again,  that  I  thought  despised  me.  Great 
God,  'twas  only  Pound's  departure  saved  her  from  another  rape,  and  at 
the  hands  of  the  man  she'd  suffered  all  the  rest  for!  To  this  day  I  cannot 
understand  that  weakness,  nor  the  other,  when  I  made  to  force  you  at 
Captain  Mitchell's." 

"For  you  'twas  simple  lust,  that  mortal  men  are  prone  to,"  Susan  replied, 
"but  to  Joan  Toast  'twas  the  end  o'  the  world,  for  she  loved  ye  as  more 
than  mortal.  When  the  Cyprian  put  in  at  Philadelphia  she  signed  herself 
to  the  first  whoremaster  on  the  dock,  that  chanced  to  be  Captain  Mitchell 
o'  Calvert  County." 

"Dear  Heav'n,  d'you  mean  to  say " 

"I  mean  to  say  she  was  his  harlot  from  the  first!  The  pox  she'd  got 
from  the  Moor  soon  spread  over  her  in  foul  eruptions,  and  no  gentleman 
would  hire  her;  what's  more  she  learned  she  was  with  child,  peradventure 
by  the  Moor.  Anon  she  took  to  opium  for  respite  from  her  miseries,  and 
thus  fell  into  Mitchell's  hands  by  perpetual  indenture,  and  was  set  to  pox- 
ing  salvages  and  sundry  menial  chores.  Twas  then  ye  appeared  a  castaway 
at  Mitchell's,  like  a  figure  in  a  dream,  and  so  ashamed  she  was  of  her  ruin, 
and  possessed  by  wrath  that  ye'd  betrayed  her,  and  withal  despairing  of 
her  future,  she  vowed  to  make  an  end  on't,  and  took  her  life.  'Twas  not 
the  fair  Joan  Toast  o'  Locket's  that  this  ring  sent  o'er  to  Maiden,  but 
her  awful  corse!" 

"And  I  her  murtherer!"  cried  Ebenezer.  "As  surely  as  if  I'd  shot  her 
through  the  heart!"  He  sprang  up  from  the  chair.  "I  shall  see  her  grave 
and  end  my  life  as  well!  Where  is  her  body?" 

"  'Tis  where  it  hath  been  many  and  many  a  time  since  the  fall  o'  the 
year,"  Susan  said,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  her  chest.  "Here  is  the  corse  of 
your  Joan  Toast,  before  your  eyes!" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [499] 

"You!  Ah,  nay,  that  cannot  be!"  But  the  realization  that  it  was  had  al- 
ready sent  fresh  tears  coursing  down  his  cheeks.  "  Tis  too  impossible!  Henry 
—Henry  would  have  known,  i' Christ!  And  Smith,  your  father " 

"Henry  Burlingame  hath  known  me  from  the  night  ye  came  to  Mitchell's, 
and  hath  preserved  the  secret  at  my  request/' 

"But  the  story  of  Susan  Warren  and  Elizabeth  Williams " 

"Tis  true,  the  whole  oft,  save  for  one  detail:  it  is  the  story  of  the  poor 
girl's  plight  when  I  was  brought  to  Mitchell's.  Twas  my  likeness  to  her, 
and  hers  to  Elizabeth  Williams,  that  had  fetched  the  high  price  he  paid 
me;  soon  after  he'd  enthralled  me  with  his  opium,  he  murthered  Susan 
in  a  fit  o'  rage,  and  buried  her  as  Elizabeth  Williams!" 

"'Sheart!" 

"  Twas  necessary  then,"  Joan  declared,  "to  hide  his  crime,  for  he  wanted 
no  attention  brought  to  bear  on  his  business.  Therefore  he  sought  out 
William  Smith  at  Maiden  and  told  him  the  girl  had  died  o'  pox;  then, 
to  be  entirely  safe,  he  promised  to  make  Smith  a  wealthy  whoremaster  on 
condition  he  avow  me  as  his  daughter.  The  cooper's  greed  got  the  better 
of  his  sentiment,  and  of  course  I  had  no  say  in  the  matter." 

"But  marry!"  Ebenezer  cried.  "This  Mitchell's  a  greater  fiend  than  his 
master  Coode!" 

"I  know  not  who  is  Mitchell's  master,  or  whether  in  sooth  he  hath  one, 
but  I  know  there  is  some  monstrous  plot  afoot.  Mitchell  is  freighting  his 
opium  to  every  quarter  of  the  Province,  and  girls  like  me  are  set  a-purpose 
to  pox  the  hapless  Indians." 

The  image  of  this  latter,  together  with  the  memory  of  his  behavior  at 
Mitchell's  and  his  share  of  responsibility  for  her  .plight  in  general,  were 
too  much  for  Ebenezer  to  endure:  he  was  seized  with  a  fit  of  dry  retches 
that  left  him  lying  exhausted  across  the  bed. 

"  Twas  merely  as  a  test  I  mentioned  Joan  Toast's  name,  to  gauge  your 
feeling  for  her;  and  another  when  I  bargained  to  swive  ye  for  my  boat 
fare:  had  ye  spurned  me  I'd  have  marked  it  to  my  ugliness,  inasmuch  as 
ye'd  meant  to  rape  me  on  the  Cyprian  when  I  was  comelier.  Yet  when 
instead  ye  had  at  me  in  the  bedchamber  'twas  still  no  flattery,  for  ye  de- 
claredjye'd  play  the  virgin  yet  at  Maiden  with  Joan  Toast." 

"Only  let  me  die  for  shame!"  Ebenezer  wailed.  "Fetch  me  a  pistol  from 
below  and  take  revenge  for  all  your  suffering!  Or  summon  John  McEvoy 
and  tell  him  what  you've  endured  on  my  account— I  shall  share  his  pleasure 
in  murthering  me!" 

"I  have  already  seen  John  McEvoy/'  Joan  replied,  "here,  in  this  very 


[  500  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

house,  not  six  weeks  past.  He  had  heard  of  your  loss  of  Maiden  and  sought 
me  out  through  Burlingame  whilst  ye  were  ill." 

"How  must  he  loathe  me!" 

"E'en  ere  he'd  seen  the  state  Fd  come  to,"  Joan  said  glibly,  "  'twas  his 
greatest  wish  to  kill  ye." 

"Then  fetch  him  in  to  shoot  me,  and  have  done  with't!" 

"Hear  me  out."  Joan  moved  to  stand  over  him  at  the  edge  of  the  bed.  "I 
told  him  we  were  man  and  wife,  albeit  ye  were  still  virginal,,  and  I  loved 
ye  yet  despite  my  sore  afflictions;  and  I  told  him  that  for  your  misfortunes, 
and  my  own,  and  his  as  well,  no  one  of  us  could  be  blamed  alone,  but  all 
must  share  the  guilt.  At  last  I  said  I  love  him  still,  but  not  as  I  love  my  hus- 
band, and  that  if  he  did  ye  harm,  'twould  but  be  injuring  me  as  well.  Then 
I  sent  him  away  and  bade  him  return  no  more,  for  A  woman  may  have  at 
once  three-score  o'  lovers,  but  only  one  beloved  at  a  time.  I  have  had  no 
news  of  him  since,  nor  do  I  wish  any." 

Ebenezer  was  too  overwhelmed  to  speak. 

"Here  is  six  pounds  your  father  gave  me  to  flee  Mitchell  with,"  Joan 
concluded  briskly,  laying  the  money  on  the  counterpane.  "  'Tis  enough  for 
one  fare,  and  two  hours  in  the  curing-house  will  earn  the  other.  The  bark 
Pilgrim  sails  from  Cambridge  on  the  early-morning  tide,  to  join  the  fleet 
at  Kecoughtan." 

"You  are  too  good!"  the  poet  wept  "What  can  I  say  or  do  to  show  my 
love?" 

"No  man  can  love  the  wreck  ye  married,"  Joan  replied.  "But  if  ye  truly 
wish  to  ease  my  chore,  there  is  a  thing  I'd  have  ye  do." 

"Anything!"  Ebenezer  swore,  and  then  realized  with  horror  what  she 
might  ask. 

"I  see  your  fear  upon  your  face,"  Joan  observed.  "Put  it  by;  'tis  not  your 
innocence  I  crave." 

"I  swear  to,  you " 

"Pray  don't;  'twere  a  needless  perjury.  I  ask  ye  but  to  wear  this  fishbone 
ring  ye  gave  me,  that  hath  such  a  curious  value  with  some  planters,  and 
give  me  to  wear  in  turn  your  silver  seal  ring:  'twill  make  me  feel  more  a 
wife  and  less  a  hedge-whore." 

"Tis  little  recompense,"  Ebenezer  said,  and  though  in  fact  it  gave  him 
considerable  pain  to  relinquish  the  ring  his  sister  had  given  him,  he  dared 
not  show  his  feelings  when  he  pulled  it  from  his  finger  and  Joan  slipped 
the  larger  fishbone  in  its  place. 

"Swear  to  me  thou'rt  my  husband!"  she  demanded. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  501  ] 

"I  swear't  to  Heav'n!  And  thou'rt  my  wife,  for  ever  and  aye!" 

"Nay,  Eben,  'twere  too  much  for  me  to  crave,  and  you  to  swear.  I  dare 

not  hope  ye'll  even  wait/' 

"May  some  god  strike  me  dead  if  I  do  not!  How  can  you  think  oft!" 
Joan  shook  her  head  and  turned  the  silver  seal  ring  on  her  finger.  "I  must 

go  to  the  curing-house  now  in  any  case/'  she  said  grimly.  "The  ring  will 

help." 

For  some  time  after  her  departure  Ebenezer  lay  fully  dressed  across  the 
bed,  still  overcome  by  all  he'd  learned  that  evening.  The  candle,  freshly 
lit  after  supper  to  illuminate  the  completion  of  his  poem,  had  long  since 
burned  low  and  was  extinguished  by  the  slight  draft  from  the  hallway  upon 
Joan's  exit.  In  one  hand  he  clutched  the  money  Joan  had  left  him;  he 
fingered  the  fishbone  ring  and  prayed  wordless  prayers  of  gratitude  to  what- 
ever gods  had  granted  him  this  means  of  escaping  his  father's  wrath  on  the 
one  hand  and  suicide  on  the  other,  and  at  the  same  time  of  discharging, 
in  some  measure,  his  awful  obligation  to  Joan  Toast. 

"What  business  hath  a  poet  with  the  business  of  the  world?"  he  asked 
himself  rhetorically.  "With  properties  and  estates,  the  tangled  quarrels  of 
governments,  and  the  nets  of  love?  They  are  his  subject  matter  only, 
and  the -more  he  plays  a  part  therein,  the  less  he  sees  them  clearly  and 
entire.  This  was  the  great  mistake  I  made  in  starting:  the  poet  must 
fling  himself  into  the  arms  of  Life,  e'en  as  I  said,  and  pry  into  her  priviest 
charms  and  secrets  like  a  lover,  but  he  must  hide  his  heart  away  and 
ne'er  surrender  it,  be  cold  as  the  callous  gigolo,  whose  art  with  women 
springs  from  his  detachment;  or  like  those  holy  fathers  that  wallowed  once 
in  sin,  the  better  to  hie  them  to  their  cells  and  reject  the  world  with  under- 
standing, so  the  poet  must  engage  himself  in  whate'er  world  he's  born  to, 
but  shake  free  oft  ere  it  shackle  him.  He  is  a  keen  and  artful  traveler,  that 
finding  himself  in  alien  country  apes  the  dress  and  manners  of  them  that 
dwell  there,  the  better  to  mark  their  barbarous  custom;  but  a  traveler  none- 
theless, that  doth  not  linger  overlong.  He  may  play  at  love,  or  learning,  or 
money-getting,  or  government—aye,  even  at  morals  or  metaphysic— so  long 
as  he  recalls  'tis  but  a  game  played  for  the  sport  oft,  and  for  failure  or 
success  alike  cares  not  a  fart.  I  am  a  poet  and  no  creature  else;  a  virgin 
priest  of  verse.  I  shall  feel  conscience  only  for  my  art,  and  there's  an  end 
on't!" 

This  reflection  he  had  launched  by  way  of  justifying  his  flight  with  Joan; 
by  the  time  it  assumed  the  tone  of  a  manifesto,  however,  a  new  thought 


[  502  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

had  occurred  to  him,  so  pernicious  that  he  thrust  it  from  his  mind  at  once, 
and  yet  so  fascinating  in  its  wickedness  that  it  thrust  itself  back  again  and 
again, 

"Ah  God,  that  I  should  e'en  conceive  it!  And  whilst  the  poor  wretch 
toils  and  shivers  in  some  salvage's  embrace  to  earn  our  passage!  'Twere  a 
vileness  unthinkable,  to  repay  such  faith  with  faithlessness,  even  if  I  were 
not  in  her  debt  for  her  ruin  and  my  life!" 

But  for  all  he  called  the  notion  unthinkable,  it  was  already  thought,  and 
the  more  he  reviled  and  railed  against  it,  the  more  tenacious  grew  its  hold 
upon  his  fancy.  He  quite  recognized,  moreover,  that  one  rarely  wastes  strong 
condemnation  on  a  deed  one  would  not  possibly  consider  doing.  After  forty- 
five  minutes  or  so  he  found  himself  saying,  "  'Twas  nowise  her  doing  that 
the  great  Moor  split  her,  and  poxed  her,  and  got  a  black  babe  in  her  ravaged 
womb;  for  all  her  opium  and  foul  whoring,  she  is  the  same  Joan  Toast  I 
love,  nor  was  her  character  disfigured  in  the  least  by  Mitchell's  purgatives 
and  abuse,  that  ruined  her  hair  and  teeth.  Twas  saintly  faith  and  charity 
to  leave  me  this  money,  e'en  though  'twas  my  own  father  she  had  it  from, 
and  that  by  arrant  fraud.  What's  more  she  is  my  wife:  it  matters  naught 
in  the  eyes  of  Heaven  that  Richard  Sowter  may  not  be  empowered  to  make 
marriages,  or  that  I  wed  her  under  duress  and  she  me  under  a  false  name, 
or  that  in  the  eyes  of  the  law  she  hath  committed  scores  and  hundreds  of 
adulteries,  while  our  marriage  hath  not  e'en  been  consummated!  I  must 
wait  for  her  return,  and  in  the  event  she  hath  not  poxed  six  poundsworth  of 
filthy  salvages,  I  must  in  conscience  give  Father's  money  back  to  her,  and 
suffer  his  wrath  after  all-which  will  be  so  much  the  greater  for  her  jilting 
him!  Thus  runs  our  Christian  code  of  honor,  and  though  as  poet  I'm  but 
a  guest,  as't  were,  in  Christendom,  still  a  guest  is  bound  to  honor  the  rules 
of  the  house." 

Yet  bound  by  what,  if  not  the  very  code  in  question?  It  was  a  patently 
falkcious  argument.  As  best  he  could  estimate,  his  time  was  running  short: 
he  rose  from  the  bed,  put  a  heavy  coat  about  his  shoulders,  and  searched 
out  his  ledger-book.  Though  he  could  not  make  out  the  verses  in  the  dark, 
he  sang  in  his  head  the  fierce  conclusion  of  his  satire  and  hugged  the 
precious  notebook  to  his  breast 

But  at  the  darkened  exitway  he  was  flooded  with  a  sweat  of  shame.  "Nay, 
what  am  I  doing!  For  all  I'm  more  a  poet  now  than  ever  in  my  life  (and 
thus  obliged  to  no  soul  save  my  muse  nor  any  institution  save  my  craft), 
and  for  all  my  pledge  runs  counter  to  the  poet's  creed  and  to  the  super- 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  503  ] 

sedent  pledge  made  long  before  to  Anna,  yet  damn  it,  I  have  given  my 
word,  and  sealed  it  with  the  rings!" 

This  was  the  final  anguish.  As  he  tiptoed  down  the  stairs  and  out  the 
back  door  of  the  house,  he  saw  his  sister's  drawn  and  hardening  features; 
as  he  stalked  across  the  dark  yard  to  the  stables  he  recalled  her  presentation 
of  the  ring,  and  his  answering  nervous  vow  to  make  her  dowry  flourish.  By 
the  time  he  found  some  visitor's  saddled  horse  and  mounted,  the  image  of 
Joan  Toast  had  somehow  got  blurred  with  that  of  Burlingame,  on  the 
one  hand,  and  his  own  cause  merged  in  some  way  with  Anna's  on  the 
other,  so  that  the  two  pairs  stood  in  an  opposition  no  less  positive  for  its 
being,  presently  at  least,  not  quite  identifiable. 

A  cold  December  wind  swept  over  Cooke's  Point  and  froze  the  tears  on 
the  poet's  cheeks.  He  pressed  his  heels  into  the  horse  and  cried  "May  some 
god  strike  me  dead!"  but  clutched  the  bank  note  tightly  lest  he  lose  it  in 
the  dark. 


PART   III:      MALDENT   EARNED 


i:    THE  POET  ENCOUNTERS  A  MAN  WITH  NAUGHT  TO 
LOSE,  AND  REQUIRES  RESCUING 


THROUGHOUT  THE  FROZEN  FIFTEEN  MILES  BETWEEN  COOKE*S  POINT  AND 

the  wharf  at  Cambridge,  Ebenezer  shivered  not  from  the  dark,  cold  wind 
alone,  which  was  broken  by  the  woods  his  path  wound  through,  nor  again 
from  the  simple  self-revulsion  that  came  and  went  in  clonic  spasms,  and 
between  the  seizures  of  which  he  could  affirm  the  cardinal  value  of  his 
art  and  the  corollary  value  of  his  independence;  what  shook  him  mainly 
was  his  fear  that  Joan  might  follow,  or  that  he  would  be  recognized, 
apprehended,,  and  returned  to  Maiden  as  a  fugitive  from  his  late  inden- 
ture. It  was  not  yet  dawn  when  he  arrived  at  the  county  seat:  the  inn 
and  courthouse  were  dark,  but  in  the  creek-mouth  loomed  the  Pilgrim, 
her  ports  and  masthead  lanterns  lit,  and  about  her  decks  as  well  as  on 
the  wharf  men  toiled  by  lamplight  to  fit  her  out  for  the  turning  of  the 
tide.  Now  nearly  set,  the  waning  moon  hid  all  but  the  morning  star, 
which  gleamed  resplendent  in  the  eastern  sky:  it  pleased  Ebenezer  to 
imagine  that  it  hung  over  the  meridian  of  London  like  the  star  of  old  over 
Bethlehem,  guiding  him  to  the  cradle  of  his  destiny. 

"There's  a  figure  Henry  Burlingame  would  make  mincemeat  of,"  he  re- 
flected, and  tethering  his  horse,  made  his  way  nervously  towards  the  wharf. 
"I  know  not  whether  I  am  Magus,  Messiah,  Lazarus,  or  the  Prodigal." 

He  had  not  gone  far  through  the  laboring  stevedores  before  a  hand  fell 
lightly  on  his  shoulder  and  someone  behind  him  asked,  "Are  ye  quitting 
Cooke's  Point  so  soon>  now,  Master  Laureate?" 

Ebenezer  nearly  swooned.  He  spun  around  to  face  his  captor,  but  the 
man  he  saw,  though  distantly  familiar,  was  no  one  whose  intentions  he 
could  confidently  assume  to  be  hostile.  It  was  a  dirty,  ragged  old  fellow 
with  much  untrimmed  beard  and  no  wig,  thin  as  a  skeleton,  who  had  been 
coiling  lines  nearby. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  demanded,  more  anxious  than  indignant. 

The  fellow  showed  great  surprise.  "Ye  do  not  even  know  me?"  he  cried, 
as  though  the  possibility  were  too  good  to  be  true. 


[  508  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Ebenezer  scrutinized  him  uncomfortably:  barring  a  metamorphosis 
nothing  short  of  miraculous,  the  man  was  not  Burlingame,  McEvoy,  Sowter, 
Smith,  or  Andrew  Cooke,  and  neither  his  dress  nor  his  occupation  sug- 
gested the  county  sheriff. 

"I  do  not,  nor  why  you  accost  me." 

"Ah  now,  fear  not,  Mister  Cooke,  sir.  I  care  not  whether  or  wherefore 
ye  sail,  nor  would  it  matter  if  I  did:  ye  can  see  yourself  I'm  but  a  wretched 
wharf  rat,  and  could  not  stop  ye/' 

"Then  prithee  let  me  go/'  Ebenezer  said.  "I  must  find  passage  out  to 
yonder  ship  at  once." 

"Indeed?"  The  stevedore  smiled  a  toothless  smile  and  squeezed  the 
poet's  arm  ferociously.  "Is  Madame  Cooke  sailing  with  ye,  or  doth  her 
business  keep  her  at  Maiden?" 

"Put  by  your  hand  and  your  impertinence  this  instant,"  Ebenezer 
threatened,  "or  I'll  have  you  sacked!"  His  voice  was  angry,  but  in  truth  he 
was  terrified  at  the  prospect  of  apprehension.  Already  a  gentleman  standing 
some  distance  behind  the  stevedore  was  watching  them  with  interest— who 
could  say  how  much  he  knew,  or  what  he  might  do? 

"There's  little  ye  can  do  to  injure  me/'  the  stevedore  sneered.  "At  my 
wages  'tis  no  threat  to  sack  me,  and  I  can't  sink  lower  when  I'm  already  on 
the  bottom.  Ye  might  say  I  am  a  man  with  naught  to  lose,  for  I've  lost  it 
all  ere  now." 

"That  is  a  pity,"  Ebenezer  began,  "but  I  do  not  see " 

"Know  that  not  long  since  I  was  a  gentleman,  Master  Poet,  with  horse 
and  dog,  wig  and  waistcoat,  and  sot-weed  fields  a-plenty  in  my  charge;  but 
now,  thanks  to  you,  sir,  'tis  a  good  day  when  my  work  so  wearies  me  that  I 
sleep  o'er  the  growling  of  my  gut,  and  I  go  in  tatters,  and  harvest  naught 
but  vermin,  chilblains,  and  blisters." 

Ebenezer  frowned  incredulously.  "Thanks  to  me?"  Suddenly  he  recog- 
nized his  detainer  and  tingled  with  alarm.  "Thou'rt  Spurdance,  my  father's 
overseer!" 

"No  other  soul  than  he,  that  was  deceived  by  your  father,  conspired 
against  by  your  unholy  friend  Tim  Mitchell,  and  ruined  by  yourself!" 

"Nay,  nay!"  Ebenezer  protested.  "There  is  more  to't  than  you  know!" 
To  his  distress  he  saw  the  interested  gentleman  moving  nearer.  "'Twas 
my  poor  innocence  undid  you!" 

"  'Tis  you,  not  I,  that  are  benighted,"  insisted  the  stevedore.  "I  know  ye 
granted  Maiden  away  in  ignorance,  and  I  know  as  well  as  you  Tim  Mitchell 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  5°9  1 

is  not  Tim  Mitchell,  nor  Susan  Warren  Susan  Warren.  But  I  know  too  old 
Captain  Mitchell,  for  all  he  was  erst  a  wicked  and  unnatural  rogue  till 
some  years  past,  hath  lately  been  in  the  power  of  your  friend  Tim!  Tis  Tim 
Mitchell  that  is  the  grand  high  whoremaster,  whoe'er  he  is  and  whoe'er  he 
works  for;  'tis  he  that  oversees  the  opium  trade  from  New  York  to  Carolina; 
'tis  he  conspires  with  Monsieur  Casteene  and  the  Naked  Indians;  'tis  he 
made  the  contracts  with  your  father  and  the  rest  to  turn  their  manors  into 
brothels  and  opium-houses,  now  the  sot-weed  market's  fallen,  and  woe  be- 
tide the  honest  overseer  that  will  have  none  oft!"  He  grasped  Ebenezer's 
other  arm  as  well  and  crowded  him  backwards  toward  the  bulkhead.  "If  he 
be  not  ruined  by  some  ninny  like  yourself,  that  knows  not  black  from  white, 
he  will  be  sacked  by's  crooked  master;  if  he  make  the  evil  public,  all  his 
neighbors  will  turn  on  him  as  one  man,  lest  their  pleasures  be  curtailed, 
and  if  he  dare  make  trouble  for  your  nameless  friend " 

"Beware  the  bulkhead,  sir!"  the  approaching  gentleman  cried,  and  drew 
his  short-sword. 

"I  cannot  help  it!"  Ebenezer  gasped,  observing  his  peril.  "This  man " 

"Release  him!"  the  stranger  commanded. 

Spurdance  glanced  wildly  at  the  sword.  "I've  naught  to  lose,  damn  ye! 
This  wretch  and  his  devilish  ally " 

He  spoke  no  more,  for  the  stranger  smote  him  across  the  face  with  the 
flat  of  his  sword.  The  blow  sent  him  sprawling,  and  before  he  could  collect 
himself  the  sword-point  was  at  his  gullet. 

"Not  another  word  upon  that  topic,"  the  stranger  said:  "neither  now  nor 
later,  else  'twill  be  your  final  word  on  earth.  None  save  the  dead  have 
naught  to  lose."  To  the  assembled  stevedores  he  said,  "This  madman  as- 
saulted Master  Cooke  here,  the  Laureate  Poet  of  Maryland!  If  he's  a  friend 
of  yours,  fetch  him  out  of  here  before  I  set  the  sheriff  on  him." 

Though  in  all  likelihood  he  had  been  recognized  already,  Ebenezer  was 
alarmed  at  the  proclamation  of  his  name.  Yet  the  stranger's  manner  quite 
awed  the  stevedores:  two  of  them  helped  the  injured  Spurdance  move  off 
toward  the  inn,  and  another  volunteered  to  ferry  both  gentlemen  out  to 
the  Pilgrim. 

"I'faith,  you've  saved  my  life,  sir!"  Ebenezer  said. 

"My  honor,  Mister  Cooke,"  the  stranger  replied,  and  clasped  the  poet's 
proffered  hand.  He  was  a  short,  swarthy,  and  solidly  proportioned  man, 
rather  older  than  the  poet;  he  wore  his  natural  iron-grey  hair  and  a  short 
beard  of  the  same  color,  and  his  coat,  boots,  and  breeches,  though  simply 
designed,  were  of  expensive-looking  material. 


[  j10  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Yonder  is  the  Pilgrim's  gig/'  he  declared,  indicating  a  long,  narrow  row- 
boat  moored  nearby.  "I'm  Nicholas  Lowe  of  Talbot,  bound  for  St.  Mary's 
City/' 

But  even  as  he  identified  himself  his  face  was  illuminated  by  the  lantern 
of  a  passing  stevedore:  Ebenezer  recognized  the  bright,  serpentlike  eyes 
and  unfortunate  teeth  and  gasped. 

"Henry!" 

"Nicholas  is  the  name,"  Burlingame  repeated,  regarding  him  steadily. 
"Nicholas  Lowe,  of  Talbot  County.  Are  you  traveling  alone,  sir?  I  under- 
stood you  were  a  married  man." 

Ebenezer  blushed.  "I— I  must  try  to  explain  that,  Henry,  when  there's 
time.  But  f  God,  'twas  not  for  my  sake  you  smote  Spurdance!" 

"No  other  cause,"  Burlingame  said.  "A  man  may  see  his  friend  need, 
but  he  will  not  see  him  bleed.  And  call  me  Nicholas,  if  you  will,  since 
Nicholas  is  my  name." 

"The  things  he  said  of  you,  and  of  Father!  They  dizzy  me!" 

"I  heard  them:  sleeveless  poppycock." 

But  Ebenezer  shook  his  head,  "What  cause  had  he  to  lie?  As  he  himself 
declared,  he'd  naught  to  lose." 

"'Tis  not  enough  for  trust  that  a  man  hath  naught  to  lose,"  Burlingame 
replied,  "if  by  virtue  of  that  fact  he  hath  somewhat  to  gain." 

"Nor  that  he  hath  naught  to  gain,"  Ebenezer  added  bitterly,  thinking 
of  the  attack  on  Spurdance,  "when  he  hath  much  to  lose." 

"Yet  remove  all  prospects  for  gain  and  loss  alike,  and  for  all  your  witness 
hath  Truth  for  his  mainsail,  his  rudder  will  be  Whimsy  and  his  breeze 
inconstant  Chance." 

"You'd  have  me  think  no  man  is  trustworthy,  then?"  Ebenezer  asked. 
"Methinks  there  is  a  motive  in  that  cynicism!" 

"What  the  saint  calls  cynicism,"  Burlingame  said  with  a  shrug,  "the 
worldly  man  calls  sense.  The  fact  oft  is,  all  men  can  be  trusted,  but  not 
with  the  same  things.  Just  as  I  might  trust  a  sea  captain  with  my  life,  but 
not  with  my  wife,  so  I  trust  Ben  Spurdance's  intention,  but  not  his  informa- 
tion. 'Tis  only  fools  and  children,  or  wretches  blind  with  love  like  poor 
Joan  Toast,  that  will  trust  a  man  with  everything." 

Ebenezer's  face  burned,  and  despite  the  cold  he  broke  into  a  sweat.  "You 
know  my  shame!" 

Burlmgame  shrugged.  "'Tis  mankind's  shame,  is't  not,  that  we  are  no 
angels?  What  have  I  learnt,  save  that  thou'rt  human,  and  Joan  Toa$t  such  a 
fool  as  I  described?" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  511  ] 

"And  I  another!"  the  poet  wept.  "What  was't  but  love  for  you  that  all 
these  months  hath  scaled  my  eyes  to  your  behavior,  plugged  my  ears  to 
your  own  admissions  and  the  dire  reports  of  others,  and  so  deranged  my 
reason  that  I  justify  your  arrantest  poltrooneries?" 

"You  believe  that  pitiful  booby  of  an  overseer."  Burlingame  sniffed 
scornfully.  "Why  is't  you  do  not  swallow  hook  and  leader  as  well,  and  be- 
lieve those  folk  who  say  'twas  I  brought  Coode  and  Jacob  Leisler  together 
and  set  off  the  entire  string  of  revolutions?  Why  not  believe  the  gentlemen 
who  make  me  chief  lieutenant  of  the  Pope  or  King  Louis,  or  James  the 
Second,  or  William  Penn,  or  the  Devil  himself?" 

"I  believe  no  one  any  longer,"  Ebenezer  replied.  "I  believe  naught  in 
the  world  save  that  Baltimore  is  the  very  principle  of  goodness,  and  Coode 
the  pure  embodiment  of  evil." 

"Then  I  must  make  your  disillusionment  complete,"  his  tutor  said.  "But 
now  let's  board  our  ship,  or  she'll  make  way  without  us."  He  started  for 
the  Pilgrim's  gig,,  but  Ebenezer  tarried  behind.  "Come  on;  what  holds  you 
back?" 

Ebenezer  covered  his  eyes.  "Shame  and  fear;  the  same  that  urge  me  on!" 

"They  are  the  cantini&res  of  all  great  enterprise  and  must  be  lived  with." 

"Nay,"  Ebenezer  said.  "This  talk  hath  clipped  the  wings  of  my  resolve: 
I  cannot  fly  to  England." 

"Nor  did  I  mean  you  to,  but  to  St.  Mary's  City  with  me,  on  pressing 
business." 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head.  "Whate'er  your  business,  right  or  wrong,  I  am 
done  with't." 

Burlingame  smiled.  "And  with  your  sister  Anna  as  well?  Tis  she  I  hope 
to  meet  in  St.  Mary's  City." 

"Anna  in  Maryland!  What  new  enormity  is  this?" 

"We've  not  time  for't  here  and  now,"  laughed  Burlingame,  and  led 
Ebenezer  by  the  arm  toward  the  waiting  gig.  "See  yonder  how  the  Pilgrim 
slacks  her  pendant?  The  tide  is  set  to  turn." 

For  a  moment  longer  the  poet  resisted  the  familiar,  urgent  spell  of  his 
former  tutor,  but  the  news  of  Anna— though  he  allowed  for  its  being  alto- 
gether false—was  too  astonishing  and  intriguing  to  let  pass;  while  they  were 
being  ferried  out  into  the  creek-mouth  he  fingered  absently  at  his  ring,  as 
always  when  his  thoughts  dwelt  on  his  sister,  and  it  was  with  a  little  shock 
of  regret  that  he  felt  fishbone  instead  of  silver. 

"What  must  Joan  be  doing  now?"  he  wondered,  perspiring  afresh  to 


[  J12  ]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

think,  and  slipped  the  fishbone  ring  into  his  pocket  lest  it  elicit  questions 
from  Burlingame. 

Since  he  carried  no  other  luggage  than  his  ledger-book,  it  took  but  a 
few  minutes  for  Ebenezer  to  sign  on  as  a  passenger  aboard  the  Pilgrim 
and  pay  his  fare  to  the  officer  on  deck.  Whatever  other  passengers  the  ship 
carried  having  long  since  signed  aboard  and  taken  to  their  berths,  the  gig 
was  hauled  in,  sail  made,  and  the  anchor  weighed  and  catted;  soon  the 
Pilgrim  had  gained  the  Choptank  channel,  and  with  a  ten-knot  breeze 
astern,  by  the  time  the  sun's  rim  edged  the  flat  horizon  she  had  left 
Castlehaven  Point  to  larboard  and  was  standing  for  the  open  waters  of 
the  Chesapeake.  Both  to  warm  himself  and  to  avoid  seeing  Cooke's  Point 
again,  Ebenezer  insisted  that  they  go  below,  and  demanded  at  once  to 
hear  whatever  news  Burlingame  had  of  Anna. 

"From  what  you  told  me  in  the  Cambridge  winehouse,"  he  said  tiredly, 
"she  is  more  twin  to  Joan  Toast  than  to  me.  Yet,  if  in  sooth  she  hath 
crossed  the  ocean,  methinks  her  quest  is  not  so  chaste  as  Joan's.  What  have 
you  learnt  of  her,  Henry?" 

"All  in  its  place,"  said  Burlingame.  "To  commence,  you  really  must  call 
me  Nicholas  Lowe.  Your  friend  and  tutor  Burlingame  is  no  more,  but  hath 
perished  by  his  own  hand/' 

"Nay,  Henry/'  Ebenezer  waved  his  hand  wearily.  "I  am  surfeited  with 
poses  and  intrigues,  and  care  not  how  or  wherefore  thou'rt  disguised." 

"This  case  is  different,"  his  friend  persisted.  "Nick  Lowe's  my  legal  name, 
I  swear't.  D'you  recall  what  business  it  was  first  fetched  me  to  Dorset, 
other  than  seeing  you  to  Maiden?  Twas  to  find  a  Mr.  William  Smith,  that 
had  in  his  keeping  some  fragment  of  John  Smith's  secret  history." 

"Marry,  that  seems  a  decade  past!  You  mean  to  say  you  got  the  papers 
from  your  friend  the  cooper,  and  they  proved  your  name  is  Nicholas  Lowe?" 

"Slowly,  slowly,"  Burlingame  laughed.  "  'Tis  rather  knottier  than  that. 
I've  yet  to  lay  rny  hands  upon  the  papers,  but  when  I  first  learned  they 
were  in  Smith's  possession,  I  asked  him  as  if  from  simple  curiosity  what 
befell  Sir  Henry  'Burlingame  in  that  final  portion  of  the  history,  and  in 
particular  whether  any  mention  was  made  in't  of  his  issue.  His  answer  was 
that  as  best  he  could  recall,  naught  happened  to  Burlingame  at  all:  John 
Smith  contrived  in  some  wise  to  take  the  salvage  doxy's  maidenhead,  and 
both  men  returned  to  Jamestown  shortly  after." 

Ebenezer  frowned.  "What's  this  of  maidenheads?  The  last  I  read  was 
the  piece  you  robbed  the  Jesuit  of,  that  ended  with  their  capture." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  5J3  ] 

"That  is  the  pity  oft,"  Burlingame  replied.  "What  the  cooper  hath  is 
not  Smith's  history  at  all,  but  a  piece  of  The  Privie  Joumall  of  Sir  Henry 
Burlingame,  that  tells  of  Smith's  adventure  with  Pocahontas.  Twas  the  first 
half  oft  you  read  in  the  carriage  to  Plymouth.  Can  you  see  the  double 
import  of  this  news?" 

''I  see  it  means  your  search  was  fruitless,  unless  there  are,  more  Smiths  in 
Maryland  to  threaten  with  castration." 

Burlingame  laughed.  "You  little  dream  the  relevance  of  your  words! 
But  aye,  that  is  one  implication  oft:  so  far  as  I  know,  Smith's  history  ends 
where  last  we  read;  the  rest  either  is  lost  or  ne'er  was  writ,  and  Sir  Henry's 
name  appears  no  more  in  the  records.  When  I  learned  this  I  called  my 
search  a  failure,  abandoned  hope  of  proving  my  identity,  and  resolved  to 
create  one  from  the  outside  in.  I  went  to  Colonel  Henry  Lowe  of  Talbot, 
that  once  years  ago  I  saved  from  Tom  Pound's  pirates  and,  after  explaining 
who  I  was,  prevailed  upon  him  to  save  my  life  in  turn  by  owning  me  as  a 
son.  Thus  was  Nicky  Lowe  born,  ex  nihilo  and  without  travail!" 

"I  must  own  I  scarcely  see  the  need  for't,"  Ebenezer  said,  "much  less 
how  'twould  save  your  life.  But  Heav'n  knows  'tis  not  your  first  mysterious 
action." 

"If  you  think  it  mysterious,  reflect  again  on  the  fact  that  'tis  not  Smith's 
history  the  cooper  hath,  but  Sir  Henry's  Privie  JournalL  Do  you  recall  how 
I  came  by  the  first  half  of  that  journal?  'Twas  when  I  stole  Coode's  letters 
in  England  from  his  courier  Ben  Ricaud!  The  Privie  Journdl  was  John 
Coode's  possession,  not  Baltimore's!" 

In  spite  of  his  disinclination  to  show  any  great  interest  in  Burlingame's 
affairs,  Ebenezer  could  not  conceal  his  curiosity  at  this  disclosure. 

"At  first,  after  what  I'd  learned  from  Ben  Spurdance,"  Burlingame  went 
on,  "it  seemed  no  great  wonder  to  me  that  Coode  should  trust  Bill  Smith 
with  the  papers,  since  Smith  was  Captain  Mitchell's  chief  lieutenant  on 
the  Eastern  Shore.  But  the  more  I  reflected  on't,  the  muddier  it  grew: 
why  was  the  cooper's  name  included  in  the  list  I'd  got  from  Baltimore,  if 
he  was  one  of  Coode's  company?  And  how  explain  the  marvelous  coinci- 
dence that  Coode,  as  well  as  Baltimore,  entrusted  his  papers  to  men  of  the 
surname  Smith?  'Twas  not  till  some  days  after  your  wedding,  when  I 
chanced  to  mention  the  matter  to  Spurdance  at  the  Cambridge  tavern,  I 
learned  that  Coode  had  ne'er  given  Smith  the  papers  in  the  first  place— the 
cooper  had  long  since  stolen  'em  from  Ben  Spurdance.  'Tis  Spurdance  is 
Coode's  lieutenant,  and  'twas  on  the  strength  of  this  prize  that  Bill  Smith 
became  Baltimore's;  in  fact,  'twas  just  this  coup  decided  Baltimore  to  di- 


[514]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

v*de  his  precious  Assembly  Journal  into  halves— not  thirds,  as  we  supposed 
—and  to  entrust  it  to  two  other  friends  of  his  named  Smith.  He  hath  a  bent 
for  such  theatrics,  and  the  move  hath  cost  him  dearly/' 

"Then  Smith  is  Baltimore's  man  and  Spurdance  Coode's?"  Ebenezer 
asked  incredulously,  "How  can  that  be,  when  the  one  is  such  a  thorough- 
going varlet  and  the  other,  for  all  his  temper,  an  honest  man?  And  how  is't 
an  agent  of  Baltimore's  is  trafficking  in  whores  and  opium  for  Captain 
Mitchell— which  is  to  say,  for  Coode?  La,  methinks  expediency,  and  not 
truth,  is  this  tale's  warp,  and  subterfuge  its  woof,  and  you've  weaved  it 
with  the  shuttle  of  intrigue  upon  the  loom  of  my  past  credulity!  In  short, 
'tis  creatured  from  the  whole  cloth,  that  even  I  can  see  doth  not  hang  all 
in  a  piece.  Tis  a  fabric  of  contradictories." 

"It  is  indeed,"  Burlingame  conceded,  "if  approached  with  the  assump- 
tions we  both  have  steered  by.  But  we  are  like  a  Swedish  naviagator  I 
knew  once  in  Barcelona  that  had  dreamed  up  a  clever  way  of  reckoning 
longitude  by  the  stars  and  was  uncommon  accurate  in  all  respects  save  one: 
to  his  dying  day  he  could  not  remember  whether  Antares  was  in  Scorpius 
and  Arcturus  in  the  Herdsman,  or  the  reverse.  The  consequence  oft  was, 
he  reckoned  his  longitude  by  Antares  with  azimuths  he'd  sighted  from 
Arcturus,  and  ran  his  ship  into  the  Goodwin  Sands!  In  plain  language,  I 
knew  Mitchell  had  support  from  some  powerful  outside  agency  whose  mo- 
tive was  more  sinister  than  mere  profit  and,  since  his  traffic  is  wicked,  I 
assumed  from  the  first  that  Coode  was  at  the  bottom  oft.  'Twas  not  till 
this  matter  of  Spurdance  and  Bill  Smith  that  alternatives  occurred  to 

^  ,  7> 

me 

Ebenezer  had  been  slouched  wearily  in  his  seat,  but  now  he  sat  upright. 
"Surely  thou'rt  not  about  to  tell  me  Baltimore's  involved  in  Mitchell's 
traffic!" 

Burlingame  nodded  soberly.  "Not  merdy  involved,  Eben:  he  is  the  heart, 
brains,  and  hand  oft!  There  is  no  limit  to  the  man's  ambitions,  or  to  the 
lengths  he'll  go  to  realize  'em.  His  plan,  no  less,  is  so  to  enervate  the  English 
in  America  with  opium,  and  friendly  towns  of  salvages  with  the  pox,  that 
anon  the  several  governments  will  fall  to  the  French  and  the  Naked 
Indians  of  Monsieur  Casteene.  Thereupon  the  Pope  hath  pledged  himself 
to  intervene  and  unite  all  the  colonies  into  one  great  bailiwick  of  Roman- 
ism, which  all  men  know  hath  shot  its  bolt  in  Europe,  and  Baltimore,  as 
reward  for  his  services,  will  be  crowned  Emperor  of  America  for  his  lifetime 
aid  a  holy  Catholic  saint  upon  his  deathl" 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR  f  5*5  ^ 

"But  'tis  absurd!"  Ebenezer  protested,  "  Tis  as  if  you  claimed  that  God 
was  in  fact  the  principle  of  evil,  and  Lucifer  the  principle  of  good!" 

Burlingame  shrugged  his  shoulders.  'That  Baltimore  stands-  behind 
Mitchell  I  am  certain,  and  viewed  through  the  lens  of  this  knowledge,  the 
entire  history  of  the  Province  takes  on  a  different  aspect:  who  knows  but 
what  old  William  Claiborne  was  a  hero,  along  with  Penn  and  Governor 
Fendall  and  the  rest,  and  Baltimore  the  monster  all  along?  All  I  know  of 
Coode  is  that  he  hath  worked  counter  to  every  government  in  Maryland: 
did  it  e'er  occur  to  you  that  they  all  might  have  been  as  corrupt  as  Baltimore 
himself,  and  that  Coode,  like  Milton's  rebel  Satan,  might  more  deserve 
our  sympathy  than  our  censure?" 

Ebenezer  pressed  his  palm  to  his  forehead  and  shuddered.  "In  the 
absence  of  facts,  I  suppose,  one  must  allow  all  possibilities— but  the  prospect 
staggers  me!" 

"  Tis  not  that  the  facts  are  absent,  after  all— I  have  been  Baltimore's 
chief  intriguer  these  four  years,  and  am  privy  to  more  facts  than  ever  Sallust 
knew  of  Catiline.  The  difficulty  is,  e'en  on  the  face  of  'em  the  facts  are 
dark— doubly  so  if  you  grant,  as  wise  men  must,  that  an  ill  deed  can  be 
done  with  good  intent,  and  a  good  with  ill;  and  triply  if  you  hold  right 
and  wrong  to  be  like  windward  and  leeward,  that  vary  with  standpoint, 
latitude,  circumstance,  and  time.  History,  in  short,  is  like  those  waterholes 
I  have  heard  of  in  the  wilds  of  Africa:  the  most  various  beasts  may  drink 
there  side  by  side  with  equal  nourishment." 

"But  what  is  this,"  Ebenezer  asked,  "except  to  say  the  facts  avail  one 
naught  in  making  judgments?  Is- 1  not  that  very  notion  I  affirmed  last  fall 
in  Cambridge,  at  the  cost  of  my  estate?" 

"Not  at  all,"  Burlingame  replied,  "for  the  court  judge  dons  his  values 
with  his  robe  and  wig,  that  are  made  for  him  by  the  legion  of  the  judged, 
and  the  jury  hath  no  other  office  save  to  rule  on  facts.  Besides  which,  they 
see  the  litigants  face  to  face  and  hear  their  testimony,  and  so  can  judge 
their  character;  but  for  all  his  notoriety  I  ne'er  have  met  the  man  who  hath 
seen  John  Coode  face  to  face,  nor,  despite  his  fame  and  influence  and 
the  great  trust  he  hath  placed  in  me,  have  I  myself  ever  seen  Lord  Baltimore, 
any  more  than  you  have." 

"What!  How  can  that  be?" 

Burlingame  answered  that  all  his  communication  with  the  Lord  Proprie- 
tary, even  when  they  lived  under  the  same  roof,  had  been  through  mes- 
sengers, for  Baltimore  had  confined  himself  to  his  chambers  on  the  grounds 
of  illness. 


[  5*6  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

'There  is  no  way  to  lay  eyes  upon  Baltimore  now,"  he  said,  "but  I  have 
lately  sworn  myself  a  solemn  vow:  if  there  lives  in  fact  such  a  creature  as 
this  John  Coode— that  hath  been  Catholic  priest,  Church-of-England 
minister,  sheriff,  captain,  colonel,  general,  and  Heav'n  alone  knows  what 
else— I  shall  confront  him  face  to  face  and  learn  once  for  all  what  cause  he 
stands  for!  Tis  to  seek  him  out,  and  Auna  as  well,  I  am  en  route  to  St. 
Mary's  City." 

At  the  mention  of  his  sister's  name  all  thoughts  of  Maryland  politics 
vanished  from  the  poet's  mind,  and  he  demanded  once  again  to  know  why 
she  and  Andrew  had  come  to  the  province  so  long  before  their  scheduled 
visit. 

'Tour  father's  cause  will  be  clear/'  Burlingame  said,  "once  I've  told  you 
that  they  did  not  make  the  voyage  together.  'Tis  to  seek  her  out  he's  come, 
and  haply  to  negotiate  with  Mitchell.  He  little  dreamt,  when  last  I  saw 
him,  that  he  had  no  more  estate  in  Maryland—- but  haply  he  hath  heard 
the  news  by  now.  .  .  ." 

"Then  Spurdance's  charge  is  true,  that  my  father  is  in  league  with 
Mitchell!" 

"Not  yet,  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge,  but  'twill  be  true  enough  anon. 
What  with  the  war,  the  want  of  foreign  markets,  the  unseasonable  weather, 
the  scarcity  of  ships  and  hardy  plants,  the  fly,  the  ground  worm,  the  horn- 
worm,  the  house-bum,  the  frostbite,  and  the  perils  of  sea  and  enemies,  your 
sot-weed  planter  nowadays  is  in  wretched  straits.  Some  have  sold  half  their 
landholdings  to  clear  the  rest;  some  have  turned  to  other  crops,  scarce  worth 
the  work  of  growing;  some  have  moved  to  Pennsylvania,  where  the  soil 
hath  not  as  yet  been  leached  and  drained  of  spirit;  and  some,  that  have 
no  love  for  these  alternatives,  have  turned  from  planting  to  more  lucrative 
fields.  I  have  cause  to  think  old  Andrew  had  an  audience  on  this  topic  with 
Lord  Baltimore  ere  he  sailed,  else  he'd  no  reason  to  come  straight  from 
Piscataway  to  Captain  Mitchell's,  where  Joan  and  I  caught  sight  of  him 
two  days  past.  'Twas  then  we  fled  together— she  to  warn  you  of  his  presence, 
I  to  make  my  bargain  with  Colonel  Henry  Lowe  and  meet  the  twain  of 
you  here.  I  could  stay  no  more  with  Mitchell,  not  alone  because  I'd  learned 
my  search  was  hopeless,  but  also  because  the  real  Tim  Mitchell,  so  I 
have  heard,  is  en  route  to  the  Province.  What's  more,  the  Jesuit  priest 
Thomas  Smith,  that  we  called  upon  near  Oxford,  hath  complained  to  Lord 
Baltimore  of  my  abusing  him,  and  on  all  sides  I  was  looked  at  with 
suspicion." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  517  ] 

"But  damn  it!"  Ebenezer  cried.  'What  of  my  sister?  Where  is  she  now, 
and  why  hath  she  come  to  Maryland?" 

"You  know  the  cause  as  well  as  I,"  said  Burlingame. 

"That  she  loves  you!"  Ebenezer  groaned,  "Ah  God,  how  pleased  that 
news  would  once  have  made  me!  But  now  I  know  you  for  the  very  essence 
of  carnality,  I  feel  as  Mother  Ceres  must  have  felt,  when  Pluto  took 
Proserpine  for  his  bride.  And  galled— i'faith,  it  galls  me  sore  to  think  how 
she  praised  my  innocence,  joined  hers  to  mine  there  in  the  London  post- 
house,  and  sealed  our  virgin  vows  with  her  silver  ring!  And  all  was  guile 
and  cruel  deceit:  you'd  long  since  had  her  maidenhead  in  the  summer-house, 
and  swived  her  behind  my  back  in  London,  and  e'en  that  very  day  of  my 
departure,  ere  my  business  with  Ben  Bragg  was  done,  the  twain  of  you 
had  billed  and  cooed  all  shameless  in  the  public  view.  Hypocrisy!  What 
lewd  delight  she  must  have  taken  in  swearing  to  me  she  would  be  chaste, 
when,  even  as  she  swore  she  still  felt  your  hands  upon  her,  and  yearned 
for  one  last  tumble  on  your  bed!  Tis  clear  now  why  that  last  farewell 
discomfited  me,  and  the  matter  of  the  ring:  she  was  so  taken  with  rut 
for  you,  that  stood  disguised  not  ten  yards  distant,  she  fancied  'twas 
you  whose  hand  she  toyed  with,  and  the  fancy  near  made  her  swoon!" 

"Enough!"  Burlingame  ordered.  "If  you  believe  this  poppycock  in  sooth, 
thou'rt  not  so  much  innocent  as  stupid!" 

"You  deny  it?"  the  poet  cried.  "You  deny  'twas  your  lewd  connection 
my  father  learned  of  in  St.  Giles  and  sacked  you  for?" 

"Nay,  not  entirely." 

"And  those  foul  boasts  in  the  Cambridge  tavern!"  Ebenezer  pressed 
angrily.  "That  she  hath  begged  you  to  have  at  her,  and  discovered  her 
priviest  secret's  to  your  eyes,  and  oft  gone  mad  with  joy  in  your  lubricious 
games— do  you  deny  these  now?" 

"They  are  true  enough  in  substance,"  Burlingame  sighed,  "but  what  you 
fail  to  see " 

"Then  where  lies  my  stupidity,  save  in  esteeming  her  too  much  to  see 
'twas  common  lust  for  you  that  fetched  her  to  our  rooms  in  Thames  Street, 
and  that  this  same  monstrous  lust  hath  brought  her  half  round  the  world  to 
warm  your  bed?" 

"No  more,  you  fool!"  exclaimed  Burlingame.  "'Tis  love  in  sooth  hath 
driven  her  hither,  or  lust,  if  you  prefer;  but  love  or  lust— i'Christ,  Eben! 
—have  you  not  remarked  these  many  years  'tis  you  that  are  its  object?" 


2:    A  LAYMAN'S  PANDECT  OF  GEMINOLOGY 
COMPENDED  BY  HENRY  BURLINGAME,  COSMOPHILIST 


EBENEZER'S  MOUTH  OPENED;  HIS  FEATURES  CONTORTED  WONDROUSLY. 

"Dear  Heav'nly  Father,  Henry!  What  have  you  said?" 

Burlingame  turned  his  fist  in  his  palm  and  frowned  at  the  deck  as  he 
spoke.  "Your  sister  is  a  driven  and  fragmented  spirit,  friend;  the  one  half 
of  her  soul  yearns  but  to  fuse  itself  with  yours,  whilst  the  other  half  recoils 
at  the  thought.  Tis  neither  love  nor  lust  she  feels  for  you,  but  a  prime 
and  massy  urge  to  coalescence,  which  is  deserving  less  of  censure  than 
of  awe.  As  Aristophanes  maintained  that  male  and  female  are  displaced 
moieties  of  an  ancient  whole,  and  wooing  but  their  vain  attempt  at 
union,  so  Anna,  I  long  since  concluded,  repines  willy-nilly  for  the  dark 
identity  that  twins  share  in  the  womb,  and  for  the  well-nigh  fetal  closeness 
of  their  childhood." 

"I  shudder  at  the  thought!"  Ebenezer  whispered. 

"As  well  doth  Anna— so  much  so,  that  her  fancy  entertains  it  only  in 
disguise— yet  no  other  thought  than  this  impelled  her  to  me  in  the  summer- 
house!  Twas  quite  in  the  middle  of  a  fine  May  night;  the  night  of  your 
sixteenth  birthday,  and  though  the  time  f or't  was  some  days  past,  a  shower 
of  meteors  was  flashing  from  Aquarius.  I  had  lingered  late  outside  to  watch 
these  falling  stars  and  plot  their  courses  on  a  map  of  my  own  devising;  so 
engrossed  was  I  in  the  work  that  when  Anna  came  up  behind — " 

"No  more!"  cried  Ebenezer.  'Tou  took  her  maidenhead,  God  curse  you, 
and  there's  an  end  on't!" 

"Quite  otherwise/'  Burlingame  replied.  "We  spent  some  hours  discussing 
you,  that  were  asleep  in  your  chamber.  Anna  likened  you  to  Phosphor,  the 
morning  star,  and  herself  to  Hesper,  the  mortal  star  of  evening,  and  when 
I  told  her  those  twin  stars  were  one  and  the  same,  and  not  a  star  at  all  but 
the  planet  Venus,  the  several  portents  of  this  fact  near  made  her  swoon! 
The  sap  was  risen  in  her,  any  man  could  see.  We  tarried  long  in  the  summer- 
house  that  night,  and  long  on  many  a  balmy  night  thereafter;  yet  always, 
I  will  swear't,  I  pleased  her  in  no  wise  save  as  your  proxy." 

"I'God,  and  you  think  this  argues  to  your  credit?" 

Burlingame  smiled.  "There  are  two  facts  you've  yet  to  swallow,  Eben. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  519  ] 

The  first  is  that  I  love  no  part  of  the  world,  as  you  might  have  guessed,  but 
the  entire  parti-colored  whole,  with  all  her  poles  and  contradictories.  Coode 
and  Baltimore  alike  I  am  enamored  of,  whatever  the  twain  might  stand  for; 
and  you  know  already  what  various  ground  hath  held  my  seed.  For  this  same 
reason  7twas  never  you  I  loved,  nor  yet  your  sister  Anna,  but  the  twain  in- 
separably, and  could  lust  for  neither  alone.  Whence  issues  the  second  fact, 
which  is,  that  de'il  the  times  her  blood  waxed  warm  the  while  she  spoke  of 
you,  and  de'il  the  times  I  kissed  her  as  the  symbol  for  you  both,  and  played 
the  sad  games  of  her  invention,  yet  your  sister  is  a  virgin  still  for  aught 
of  me!" 

He  laughed  at  Ebenezer's  shock  and  disbelief.  "Aye,  now,  that  wants 
some  chewing,  doth  it  not?  Think  with  what  relish,  as  a  child,  she  would 
play  Helen  to  your  Paris,  but  ever  call  you  Pollux  by  mistake!  Recall  that 
day  in  Thames  Street  when  you  chided  her  for  lack  of  suitors  and  as  a 
tease  proposed  me  for  the  post " 

Ebenezer  clutched  his  throat.  "Marry!" 

"Her  reply/7  Burlingame  went  on,  "was  that  the  search  for  beaux  was 
fruitless,  inasmuch  as  the  man  she  loved  most  had  the  bad  judgment  to  be 
her  twin!  And  reflect,  in  the  light  of  what  I've  told  you,  on  this  matter  of 
your  mother's  silver  ring,  that  Anna  gave  you  in  the  posthouse:  did  you 
know  she  was  wont  to  read  the  letters  ANNE  B  as  ANN  and  EB  conjoined? 
Can  a  poet  be  blind  to  the  meaning  of  that  gift  and  of  the  manner  of  its 
giving?" 

"To  contemplate  it  is  to  risk  the  loss  of  my  supper/'  Ebenezer  groaned, 

"yet  I  must  own  there  is  some  sense  in  all  you  say "  His  face  hardened. 

"Save  that  she's  still  a  maid!  That's  too  much!" 

His  friend  shrugged.  "Believe't  or  no.  Well  find  her  anon,  I  pray,  and 
you  may  get  a  physician's  word  for't  if  you  please." 

"But  what  you  bragged  of  in  the  Cambridge  tavern!" 

"Many  shuffle  the  cards  that  do  not  play.  I  could  as  easily  have  had  at 
you  in  Bill  Mitchell's  barn,  but  the  truth  is,  as  I  said  before,  'tis  not  the 
one  nor  the  other  I  crave,  but  the  twain  as  one.  Haply  the  day  will 
come  when  poor  dear  Anna's  secret  lust  will  get  the  better  of  her  reason 
and  your  own  likewise  (which,  deny't  as  you  may,  is  plain  to  me!) :  if  such 
a  day  dawn,  why  then  perchance  I'll  come  upon  you  sack  a  sack  as  did 
Catullus  on  the  lovers,  and  like  that  nimble  poet  pin  you  to  your  work- 
nay,  skewer  you  both  like  twin  squabs  on  a  spit!" 

The  poet  shuddered.  "This  is  too  much  to  assimilate,  Henry:  Coode  a 
hero;  my  father  in  Maryland  searching  for  Anna  and  leagued  with  the  villain 


[  520  ]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Baltimore;  Anna  herself  yet  virginal;  and  you,  after  all  that  hath  transpired— 
you  wholly  innocent  and  still  my  friend!  And  marry  come  up,  you  make 
matters  no  simpler  when  you  declare  my  sister's  lust  to  be  reciprocal!  Such 
a  prurient  notion  hath  never  crossed  my  mind!" 

Burlingame  raised  his  eyebrows.  "Then  you  quite  deceived  your  servants 
at  St.  Giles.  Mrs.  Twigg  was  wont  to  tell  me " 

"She  was  a  foul-fancied  harridan!" 

"Why,  they  even  had  a  rhyme,  the  which " 

"I  know  their  scurrilous  rhyme,  whatever  it  be/'  Ebenezer  said  impa- 
tiently. "I  have  heard  a  dozen  such,  since  I  was  small.  Nor  is  your  wicked 
imputation  foreign  to  me,  if  you  must  know,  albeit  I'm  not  a  little  shocked 
to  hear  you  share  it.  Poor  Anna  and  I  since  birth  have  breathed  in  an  air  of 
innuendo,  the  which  hath  oft  and  oft  caused  us  to  blush  and  lower  our 
eyes.  Since  I  was  ten  our  father's  household  hath  assumed  the  worst  of  us, 
for  no  other  reason  than  that  we  were  twins.  Twas  Anna's  ill  luck  her 
body  blossomed  at  an  early  age,  and  e'en  her  fondest  girl  friends— 
e'en  that  same  Meg  Bromly  who  took  your  letters  to  her  from  Thames 
Street— they  all  declared  her  ripening  was  my  work  and  drove  Anna  to  tears 
with  their  whispering!  All  this,  mind,  on  no  grounds  whate'er  save  our 
twinship,  and  the  fact  that  unlike  many  brothers  and  sisters  we  never  quar- 
reled, but  preferred  each  other's  company  to  the  concupiscent  world's!  I 
cannot  grasp  it." 

"Then  for  all  thy  Cambridge  learning,"  Burlingame  laughed,  "thou'rt 
not  by  half  the  scholar  your  sister  is!  When  first  I  guessed  her  trouble,  long 
ere  she  saw't  herself,  we  launched  a  long  and  secret  enquiry  into  the  subject 
of  twins— their  place  in  legend,  religion, -and  the  world.  Twas  my  intent  by 
this  investigation  not  so  much  to  cure  Anna's  itch— which  I  was  not  at  all 
persuaded  was  an  ailment— as  'twas  to  understand  it,  to  see  it  in's  perspective 
in  the  tawdry  history  of  the  species,  if  we  might,  and  so  contrive  the  most 
enlightened  way  to  deal  with  it.  I  need  not  say  my  interest  was  as  heartfelt 
as  her  own;  her  oft-sworn  love  for  me,  I  could  see  clearly,  was  love  for  you, 
diverted  and  transmogrified  by  virtuous  conscience.  When  she  would  run 
to  me  in  the  summer-house,  'twas  as  a  jilted  maiden  runs  to  a  convent  and 
becomes  the  bride  of  Christ,  and  I  sorely  feared,  if  her  case  were  not  soon 
physicked,  'twould  bereave  her  altogether  of  her  reason  or  else  drive  her  to 
some  surrogate  not  so  tender  of  her  honor  as  was  I." 

"Dear  God!" 

"For  this  reason  I  led  her  on,"  Burlingame  continued.  "I  declared  my 
love  for  her— half  in  truth,  you  understand— and  together  we  explored  the 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  5^1  ] 

misty  land  of  legends,  both  Christian  and  pagan;  the  stories  brought  back 
by  mariners  from  far  exotic  places;  and  the  literatures  of  classic  and  vulgar 
tongues.  Four  years  we  studied—from  your  fourteenth  to  your  eighteenth 
year— and  all  in  secret.  On  the  face  oft  our  enquiry  was  beyond  reproach, 
and  I  yearned  for  you  to  join  us,  but  Anna  would  have  none  oft,  though 
she  herself  could  not  say  why.  1'faith,  Eben,  what  a  tireless  scholar  is  your 
sister!"  He  shook  his  head  in  reminiscent  awe.  "I  could  not  find  her  volumes 
enough  of  voyage  and  travels,  or  heathen  rites  and  practices:  she  would 
fall  on  'em  like  a  lioness  on  her  prey,  devour  'em  in  great  bites,  and  thirst 
for  more!  I'd  wager  my  life  on't,  at  seventeen  years  she  was  the  world's 
foremost  authority  on  the  subject  of  twins,  and  is  today." 

"And  I  knew  naught  oft?"  Ebenezer  shook  his  head  and  laughed 
uncomprehendingly.  "But  what  was  the  fruit  of  all  this  secret  labor?  What 
is  there  to  know  of  us  twins,  save  that  we  were  conceived  in  a  single 
swiving?" 

"Why,  that  Gemini  is  your  sign  and  springtime  your  season,"  Burlingame 
replied. 

"It  wants  no  scholarship  to  hit  on  that.  Tis  common  knowledge." 

"As  is  the  fact  that  springtime— and  Maytime  in  particular— is  the  season 
of  fertility  and  the  year's  first  thunderstorms." 

"Don't  teasel"  the  poet  said  irritably.  "This  day  and  night  have  been 
my  life's  most  miserable,  and  I  am  near  dead  from  shock  and  want  of  sleep, 
to  say  naught  of  misery.  If  all  your  study  ploughed  up  no  lore  save  this, 
have  done  with't  and  let  us  rest.  'Tis  all  impertinence." 

"On  the  contrary,"  Burlingame  declared.  "So  pertinent  are  our  findings,, 
methinks  you'd  as  well  give  o'er  the  search  for  Anna  unless  you  hear  'em: 
'tis  better  to  be  lost  than  saved  by  the  wrong  Messiah."  His  manner  and 
tone  grew  serious.  "You  know  that  spring  is  the  season  of  storms  and  fer- 
tility, but  do  you  know,  as  doth  your  sister,  that  of  all  the  things  our  rustic 
forebears  feared,  the  three  that  most  alarmed  them  were  thunder,  lightning, 
,and  twins?  Did  you  know  thou'rt  worshipped  the  whole  world  over,  whether 
by  murther  or  by  godhood,  if  not  both?  Through  the  reverence  of  the  most 
benighted  salvage  runs  this  double  thread  of  storms  and  fornication,  and 
the  most  enlightened  sages  have  seen  in  you  the  embodiment  of  dualism, 
polarity,  and  compensation.  Thou'rt  the  Heavenly  Twins,  the  Sons  of 
Thunder,  the  Dioscuri,  the  Boanerges;  thou'rt  the  twin  principles  of  male 
and  female,  mortal  and  divine,  good  and  evil,  light  and  darkness.  Your  tree 
is  the  sacred  oak,  the  thunder-tree;  your  flower  is  the  twin-leaved  mistletoe, 
seat  of  the  oak  tree's  life,  whose  twin  white  berries  betoken  the  celestial 


[  1J22  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

semen  and  are  thus  employed  to  rejuvenate  the  old,  fructify  the  barren, 
and  turn  the  shy  maid's  fancies  to  lusty  thoughts  of  love.  Your  bird  is  the 
red  cock  Chanticleer,  singer  of  light  and  love.  Your  emblems  are  legion: 
twin  circles  represent  you,  whether  suggested  by  the  sun  and  moon,  the 
wheels  of  the  solar  chariot,  the  two  eggs  laid  by  Leda,  the  nipples  of 
Solomon's  bride,  the  spectacles  of  Love  and  Knowledge,  the  testicles  of 
maleness,  or  the  staring  eyes  of  God.  Twin  acorns  represent  you,  both  be- 
cause they  are  the  thunder-tree's  seed  and  because  their  two  parts  fit  like 
male  and  female.  Twin  mountain  peaks  represent  you,  the  breasts  of 
Mother  Nature;  the  Maypole  and  its  ring  are  danced  round  in  your 
honor.  Your  sacred  letters  are  A,  C,  H,  I,  M,  O,  P,  S,  W,  X,  and  Z " 

"rChrist!"  Ebenezer  broke  in.  "  Tis  half  the  alphabet!" 

"Each  hath  its  separate  import,"  Burlingame  explained,  "yet  all  have 
common  kinship  with  swiving,  storms,  and  the  double  face  of  Nature.  Your 
A,  for  example,  is  the  prime  and  mightiest  letter  of  the  lot— a  god  in  itself, 
and  worshipped  by  heathen  the  great  world  round.  It  represents  the  forked 
crotch  of  man,  the  source  of  seed,  and  also,  by's  peak  and  by's  cross-line, 
the  union  of  twain  into  one,  that  I'll  speak  of  anon.  When  you  set  two  A's 
cheek  by  jowl  you  see  the  holy  nippled  paps  of  Mother  Earth,  as  well  as 
the  sign  of  the  holy  Asvins,  the  twin  charioteers  of  Eastern  lore.  Your  C 
betokens  the  crescent  moon,  that  in  turn  is  held  to  resemble  man's  carnal 
sword,  unsheathed  and  rising  to  the  fray;  two  C's  entwined  are  the  union  of 
Heaven  and  Earth,  or  Christ  and  his  earthly  church " 

"In  HeavVs  name,  Henry,  what  are  these  riddles  thou'rt  flooding  me 
with?" 

"Anon,  anon,"  Burlingame  said.  "Your  H  portrays  the  same  happy  union 
of  two  into  one:  'tis  the  zodiac  sign  for  Gemini;  the  bridge  'twixt  the  twin 
pillars  of  light  and  dark,  love  and  learning,  or  what  have  you;  'tis  also  the 
eighth  letter,  and  inasmuch  as  8  is  the  mystic  mark  of  redemption  (by 
virtue  of  its  copulating  circles),  'tis  no  surprise  that  H  is  the  emblem  of 
atonement— the  making  of  two  into  one." 

"Again  this  mystery  of  twos  and  ones!"  the  poet  protested. 

"  'Tis  no  mystery  when  you  know  about  I  and  O,"  said  Burlingame.  "In 
every  land  and  time  folk  have  maintained  that  what  we  see  as  two  are  the 
fallen  halves  of  some  ancient  one—that  night  and  day,  Heaven  and  Earth, 
or  man  and  woman  were  long  since  severed  by  their  sinful  natures,  and 
that  not  till  Kingdom  Come  will  the  fallen  twain  be  a  blessed  one.  Tis 
this  lies  'neath  the  tale  of  Eve  and  Adam,  and  Plato's  fable,  and  the  fall  of 
Lucifer,  and  Heav'n  knows  how  many  other  lovely  lies;  'tis  this  the  Lord 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  523  ] 

Himself  refers  to,  in  the  second  epistle  of  Pope  Clement:  He  declares  His 
Kingdom  shall  come  When  the  two  shell  be  one,  and  the  outside  as  the 
inside,  and  the  male  with  the  female.  Thus  all  men  reverence  the  act  of 
fornication  as  portraying  the  fruitful  union  of  opposites:  the  Heavenly 
Twins  embraced;  the  Two  as  One!" 

Ebenezer  shivered. 

"Your  I  and  O  are  plainly  then  discovered,"  Burlingame  said  with  a 
smile:  "the  one  is  male,  the  other  female;  together  they  are  the  great  god 
lo  of  Egypt,  the  ring  on  the  maidens*  merry  Maypole,  the  acorn  in  its  cup, 
the  circumcised  prepuce  of  the  Jew,  the  genital  letters  P  and  Q— and  the 
silver  seal  ring  Anna  slipped  upon  your  finger  in  the  posthouse!" 

TGodl" 

"As  for  the  others,  your  M  is  the  twin  mountain  breasts  I  spoke  of;  S 
is  the  copulation  of  twin  Cs  face  to  face,  and  is  sprung  as  well  from  the 
sacred  Z;  W— the  double-you,  as  M  is  the  double-me— W,  I  say7  is  a  pair  of 
Vs  sack  a  sack:  'tis  thus  the  sign  of  the  Heavenly  Twins  of  India,  called 
Vritrahana,  and  the  third  part  of  the  Druids'  invocation  to  their  god,  the 
whole  of  which  was  I.O.W.  X,  like  A  and  H,  is  the  joining  of  Two  into 
One,  and  as  such  hath  been  venerated  since  long  ere  the  murther  of 
Christ;  Z  is  the  zigzag  lightning  flash  of  Zeus,  or  whatever  god  you  please, 
and  is  ofttimes  flanked,  in  ancient  emblems,  by  the  circles  of  the  Heavenly 
Twins " 

"Enough!"  the  poet  cried.  "This  dizzies  me!  What  is  the  message  oft, 
and  what  hath  it  to  do  with  Anna  and  me?" 

"Why,  naught  in  the  world,"  Burlingame  responded,  "save  to  show  you 
how  deep  in  the  marrow  of  man  runs  this  fear  and  reverence  for  twins,  and 
their  connection  with  coitus  and  the  weather.  All  over  Africa  the  birth  of 
twins  is  followed  by  dances  of  the  lewdest  sort:  sometimes  'tis  thought  to 
prove  the  mother  an  adultress,  since  husbands  generally  get  one  babe  at  a 
time;  other  folk  think  the  mother  hath  been  swived  by  the  Holy  Spirit,  or 
that  the  father  hath  an  inordinate  lingam.  In  sundry  isles  of  the  western 
ocean  'tis  common  for  the  salvages  to  throw  coffee  beans  at  the  walls  of  a 
house  where  twins  are  born;  they  believe  that  otherwise  one  must  die, 
inasmuch  as  twins  break  the  laws  of  chastity  while  still  embraced  in  their 
mother's  womb!  In  divers  lands  no  living  twins  can  be  found,  for  the 
reason  that  one  is  always  slain  at  birth;  but  murthered  or  not,  they  are 
worshiped  in  every  place,  and  have  been  since  time  out  of  mind.  The 
old  Egyptians  had  their  Taues  and  Taouis,  the  twins  of  Scrapeum  at 
Memphis,  as  well  as  the  sisters  Tathautis  and  Taebis,  the  ibis-wardens  of 


[  ?2A  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Thebes;  in  India  reigned  Yama  and  Yami,  and  the  holy  Asvins  I  spoke  of 
earlier,  that  drew  the  Heavenly  Chariot;  the  Persians  worshipped  Ahriman 
and  Ormuz;  the  ancient  myths  of  the  Hebrews  tell  of  Huz  and  Buz, 
Huppim  and  Muppim,  Gog  and  Magog,  and  Bne  and  Baroq,  to  say  naught 
of  Esau  and  Jacob,  Cain  and  Abel— or  as  the  Mohammedans  have  it,  Cain 
and  Alcima  and  Abel  and  Jumella " 

"Ah!"  Ebenezer  exclaimed. 

"Some  held,"  Burlingame  went  on,  "that  Lucifer  and  Michael  were 
twins,  as  are  most  gods  of  Light  and  Darkness;  and  for  the  selfsame  cause 
the  old  Edessans  of  Mesopotamia,  who  erst  had  worshipped  Monim  and 
Aziz,  were  wont  to  regard  e'en  Jesus  and  Judas  as  hatched  from  a  single 


"Incredible!" 

"No  more  than  that  God  and  Satan  themselves " 

"I  don't  believe  it!"  Ebenezer  protested. 

"Tis  not  a  question  of  your  belief,"  laughed  Burlingame,  "but  of  the 
fact  that  other  wights  think  it  true;  'tis  but  a  retelling  of  the  tale  of  Set  and 
Horns,  or  Typhon  and  Osiris,,  whom  some  Egyptians  took  for  twins  and 
others  merely  for  rivals.  But  I  was  coming  to  the  Greeks  .  .  ." 

'You  may  pass  o'er  them,"  sighed  the  poet.  "I  know  of  Castor  and 
Pollux,  the  sons  of  light  and  thunder,  and  as  well  of  Helen  and  Clytemnes- 
tra,  that  were  hatched  with  'em  from  Leda's  eggs." 

"Then  you  must  know  too  of  Lynceus  and  Idas,  that  slew  the  Dioscuri; 
of  Amphion  and  Zethus,  that  sacked  and  rebuilt  Troy;  of  Heracles  and 
Iphikles,  that  are  twins  in  this  tale  and  half-brothers  in  that,  and  of  Hesper 
and  Phosphor,  the  morning  and  evening  stars." 

"And  now  you'll  go  to  Rome,  I'll  wager,  and  speak  of  Romulus  and 
Remus?" 

"Ayer"  said  Burlingame,  "to  say  naught  of  Picumnus  and  Pilumnus,  or 
Mutumnus  and  Tutumnus.  'Twas  the  great  respect  accorded  these  classic 
twins  that  carried  them  into  the  Christian  Church,  which  had  the  good 
sense  to  canonize  'em  in  lieu  of  fighting  back.  Hence  the  Greek  and  Roman 
Catholics  pray  to  Saints  Romolo  and  Remo,  Saints  Kastoulos  and  Poly- 
euctes,  and  e'en  St.  Dioscoros;  the  more  superstitious  amongst  them  go  yet 
farther  and  regard  as  twins  Saints  Crispin  and  Crispian,  Florus  and  Laurus, 
Marcus  and  Marcellianus,  Protasius  and  Gervasius " 

"A  surfeit!"  cried  the  poet.  "There  is  a  surfeit!" 

'You  have  not  heard  the  best  of  all,"  Burlingame  insisted.  "They  will 
hold  Saints  John  and  James  to  be  twins  as  well,  and  e'en  Saints  Jude  and 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  525  ] 

Thomas,  inasmuch  as  Thomas  means  'a  twin/  Til  not  trouble  you  with 
Tryphona  and  Tryphosa,  that  Paul  salutes  in's  Epistle  to  the  Romans,  but 
turn  instead  to  the  Aryan  heroes  Baltram  and  Sintram,  or  Cautes  and 
Cautopates,  and  the  northern  tales  of  Sieglinde  and  Siegmunde,  the 
incestuous  parents  of  Siegfried,  or  Baldur,  the  Norseman's  spirit  of  Light, 
and  his  enemy,  dark  Loki,  that  slew  him  with  a  branch  of  mistletoe!" 

"Tis  a  hemisphere  overridden  with  godly  twins!"  Ebenezer  marveled. 

Burlingame  smiled.  "Yet  it  wants  twin  hemispheres  to  make  a  whole: 
when  Anna  and  I  turned  our  eyes  to  westward,  we  found  in  the  relations 
of  the  Spanish  and  English  adventurers  no  less  a  profusion  of  Heavenly 
Twins,  revered  by  sundry  salvages;  and  the  logs  of  divers  voyages  to  the 
Pacific  and  Indian  Oceans  were  no  different.  Methinks  there  is  not  a  tribe 
upon  the  planet  that  hath  not  the  like  of  the  Boanerges!  Old  Cortez,  when 
he  raped  the  glorious  Aztecs,  found  them  worshiping  Quetzalcoatl  and 
Tezcatlipoca,  as  their  neighbors  reverenced  Hun-hun-ahpu  and  Vukub 
hun-ahpu.  Pizarro  and  his  cohorts,  had  they  been  curious  enough  to  ask, 
would  have  found  in  the  southern  pantheon  such  twins  as  Pachakamak 
and  Wichoma,  Apocatequil  and  Piquerao,  Tamendonar^  and  Arikut6,  Karu 
and  Rairu,  Tiri  and  Karu,  Ken  and  Kame.  Why,  I  myself,  enquiring  here 
and  there  among  the  Indians  of  these  parts,  have  leamt  from  the 
Algonkians  that  they  reverence  Menabozho  and  Chokanipok,  and  from  the 
Naked  Indians  of  the  north  that  they  pray  to  Juskeha  and  Tawiskara.  From 
the  Jesuit  missionaries  I  have  learnt  of  a  nation  called  the  Zuni,  that 
worship  Ahaiyuta  and  Matsailema;  of  another  called  Navaho,  that  worship 
Tobadizini  and  Nayenezkani;  of  another  called  Maidu,  that  worship 
Pemsanto  and  Onkoito;  of  another  called  Kwakiutl,  that  worship  Kanigyilak 
and  Nemokois;  of  another  called  Awikeno,  that  worship  Mamasalanik  and 
Noakaua— all  of  them  twins.  Moreover,  there  is  in  far  Japan  a  band  of  hairy 
dwarfs  that  pray  to  the  twins  Shi-acha  and  Mo-acha,  and  amongst  the  gods 
of  the  southern  ocean  reign  the  great  Si  Adji  Donda  Hatahutan  and  his 
twin  sister,  Si  Topi  Radja  Na  Uasan  .  .  ." 

"  'Tis  your  scheme  to  drive  me  mad!" 

"Nay,  that  is  their  name,  I  swear't:  Si  Adji  Donda  Hatahutan  and 
his " 

"No  matter!  No  matter!"  Ebenezer  shook  his  head  as  though  to  jar  his 
senses  into  order.  "You  have  proved  to  the  very  rocks  and  clouds  that  twin- 
worship  is  no  great  rarity  in  this  earth!" 

Burlingame  nodded  acknowledgment.  "Sundry  pairs  of  these  twins  are 
opposites  and  sworn  enemies—such  as  Satan  and  God,  Ahriman  and  Ormuz, 


[  526  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

or  Baldur  and  Loki— and  their  fight  portrays  the  struggle  of  Light  with 
Darkness,  the  murther  of  Love  by  Knowledge,  or  what  have  you.  Sundry 
others  represent  the  equivocal  state  of  man,  that  is  half  angel  and  half 
beast:  thus  with  Hesper  and  Phosphor,  Zethus  and  Amphion,,  Castor 
and  Polydeuces,  Iphikles  and  Heracles,  or  Judas  and  Jesus>  the  first  of  each 
pair  is  mortal  and  the  second  divine.  Still  others  are  the  gods  of  fornication, 
like  Mutumnus  and  Tutumnus,  or  Picumnus  and  Pilumnus;  if  less  than 
gods,  they  yet  may  be  remembered  for  incestuous  lust,  like  Cain  and  his 
Alcima,  and  even  be  honored  for  swiving  up  a  hero,  as  were  Sieglinde  and 
Siegmunde.  How  Anna  loved  the  Siegfried  tales!" 

So  heavy  with  revelations  was  the  poet,  he  could  only  wave  his  hand 
against  this  remark. 

"Yet  whether  their  bond  be  love  or  hate  or  death,"  Burlingame  con- 
cluded, "almost  always  their  union  is  brilliance,  totality,,  apocalypse — a  thing 
to  yearn  and  tremble  for!  Tis  this  union  Anna  desires  with  all  her  heart, 
howe'er  her  mind  disguise  it;  'tis  this  hath  brought  her  halfway  round  the 
globe  to  seek  you  out,  and  your  father  to  fetch  her  home  if  he  can  find  her. 
Tis  this  your  own  heart  bends  to,  will-ye,  nill-ye,  as  a  flower  to  the  light, 
to  make  you  one  and  whole  and  nourished  as  ne'er  since  birth;  or  as  a 
needle  to  the  lode,  to  direct  you  to  the  harbor  of  your  destinyl  And  'tis  this 
I  yearn  for  too,  and  naught  besides:  I  am  Suitor  of  Totality,  Embracer  of 
Contradictories,  Husband  to  all  Creation,  the  Cosmic  Lover!  Henry  More 
and  Isaac  Newton  are  my  pimps  and  aides-de-chambre;  I  have  known  my 
great  Bride  part  by  splendrous  part,  and  have  made  love  to  her  disjecta 
membra,  her  sundry  brilliant  pieces;  but  I  crave  the  Whole—the  tenon  in 
the  mortise,  the  jointure  of  polarities,  the  seamless  universe— whereof  you 
twain  are  token,  in  coito!  I  have  no  parentage  to  give  me  place  and  aim 
in  Nature's  order:  very  well— I  am  outside  Her,  and  shall  be  Her  lord  and 
spouse!" 

Burlingame  was  so  aroused  by  his  own  rhetoric  that  at  the  end  of  this 
speech  he  was  pacing  and  gesturing  about  the  cabin,  his  voice  raised  to  the 
pitch  and  volume  of  an  Enthusiast's;  even  had  Ebenezer  not  been  too 
dismayed  for  skepticism,  he  could  scarcely  have  questioned  his  former 
tutor's  sincerity.  But  he  was  stunned,  as  well  with  recognition  as  with  appall: 
he  clutched  his  head  and  moaned. 

Burlingame  stopped  before  him,  "Surely  you'll  not  deny  your  share  of 
guilt?" 

The  poet  shook  his  head.  Til  not  deny  that  the  soul  of  man  is  deep  and 
various  as  the  reach  of  Heav'n,"  he  replied,  "or  that  he  hath  in  germ  the 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  527  ] 

sum  of  poles  and  possibilities.  But  I  am  stricken  by  what  you  say  of  me  and 

Anna!" 

"What  have  I  said,  but  that  thou'rt  human?" 

Ebenezer  sighed.  "  Tis  quite  enough." 

By  this  time  the  sun  was  bright  in  the  eastern  sky,  and  the  Pilgrim  stood 
well  down  the  Bay  for  Point  Lookout  and  St.  Mary's  City;  the  other  pas- 
sengers were  awake  and  stirring  about  their  quarters.  At  Burlingame's  sug- 
gestion they  fastened  their  scarves  and  coats  and  went  on  deck,  the  better 
to  speak  in  private. 

"How  is't  you  know  Anna  to  be  in  St.  Mary's?  Why  did  she  not  come 
straight  to  Maiden?" 

"  'Tis  your  man  Bertrand's  fault,"  Burlingame  answered  and,  laughing 
at  Ebenezer's  bewilderment  and  surprise,  confessed  that  when  he  had  dis- 
patched Bertrand  from  Captain  Mitchell's  to  St.  Mary's  City  back  in 
September,  he  had  charged  the  valet  not  only  to  retrieve  the  Laureate's 
trunk  but  if  possible  to  claim  it  in  the  guise  of  the  Laureate  himself,  the 
better  to  throw  John  Coode  off  the  scent  while  they  made  their  way  to 
Maiden.  "To  this  end  I  rashly  loaned  him  your  commission " 

"My  commission!  Then  'tis  true  you  stole  it  from  me  back  in  England!" 

Burlingame  shrugged.  "  Twas  I  authored  it,  was't  not?  Besides,  would  it 
not  have  gone  worse  with  you  had  Pound  been  certain  of  your  identity? 
In  any  case,  there  was  some  peril  in  your  man's  assignment,  and  'twas  my 
thought,  if  Coode  should  kill  or  kidnap  him  with  the  paper  on  his  person, 
he  might  think  you  yourself  were  an  impostor— 'twould  have  spun  his  com- 
pass for  fair!  Howbeit,  he  could  not  rest  at  fetching  your  trunk,  it  seems, 
but  must  parade  St.  Mary's  City  as  the  Laureate  and  declare  his  post  in 
every  inn  and  tavern." 

"Ah  God,  the  vain  and  faithless  wretch!" 

Thus  it  was,  Burlingame  declared,  that  on  reaching  the  port  of  St.  Mary's 
some  time  ago,  Anna  had  been  given  to  think  her  brother  was  in  the  town 
and  had  disembarked  in  quest  of  him.  "I  myself  heard  naught  of  this  until 
old  Andrew  came  to  Captain  Mitchell's;  he  had  leamt  in  London  of  my 
whereabouts,  and,  like  you,  thinks  Anna  hath  come  to  be  my  wife.  But  he 
believes  thou'rt  party  to  the  scheme  as  well  and  are  pimping  us  in  some 
wise:  when  he  learns  the  state  of  things  at  Maiden,  today  or  tomorrow, 
he'll  assume  you've  fled  with  the  twain  of  us  to  Pennsylvania,  where  fly 
all  fugitives  from  responsibility— the  more  readily,  inasmuch  as  neither 
Anna  nor  the  false  Laureate  hath  been  seen  or  heard  of  since  she  landed." 
He  sucked  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth.  "  'Twas  my  intent  to  stay  with 


[  528  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Andrew,  disguised  as  Timothy  Mitchell,  the  better  to  temper  his  wrath 
and  learn  his  connection  with  Lord  Baltimore;  but  so  vain  hath  been  my 
search  for  parentage  in  the  world,  and  so  much  rancor  hath  that  search 
engendered,  from  the  Jesuit  Thomas  Smith  and  others,  'twas  no  longer  safe 
to  play  that  role." 

Ebenezer  asked  what  were  his  tutor's  present  plans. 

'We'll  put  ashore  together  at  St.  Mary's,"  Burlingame  said.  "You  then 
enquire  in  public  places  for  news  of  Anna  or  Eben  Cooke,  and  I  shall  search 
alone  for  Coode." 

"At  once?  Is't  not  more  urgent  to  find  my  sister  ere  some  harm  befall 
her?" 

"Tis  but  two  paths  to  a  single  end,"  replied  Burlingame.  "No  man 
knows  more  than  Coode  of  what  transpires  in  Maryland,  and  for  aught  we 
know  he  may  have  made  prisoners  of  them  both," 

"'Sheart!" 

"Besides  which,  if  I  can  win  his  confidence,  he  may  abet  us  in  regaining 
your  estate.  'Twill  be  a  joy  to  him,  after  all,  to  hear  the  Laureate  of  Mary- 
land is  his  ally!"  ^ 

"Nay,  not  so  swiftly,"  Ebenezer  protested.  "I  may  be  disabused  of  my 
faith  in  Baltimore,  but  I've  sworn  no  oaths  of  loyalty  to  John  Coode.  In 
any  case,  as  you  well  know,  I  ne'er  was  Laureate— and  even  had  I  been,  I'd 
be  no  longer.  Look  at  this."  He  drew  the  ledger  from  his  coat  and  showed 
Burlingame  the  finished  Marylandiad,  which  in  view  of  its  antipanegyric 
tone  he  had  retitled  The  Sot-Weed  Factor.  "Call't  a  clumsy  piece  if  you 
will,"  he  challenged.  "  'Tis  honest  nonetheless,  and  may  spare  others  my 
misfortunes." 

"What's  full  of  heart  may  be  bare  of  art"  Burlingame  asserted  with  in- 
terest, "—and  vice-versa."  He  held  the  ledger  open  against  the  rail  and  read 
the  work  closely  several  times  while  the  Pilgrim  ran  down  the  Bay  to  Point 
Lookout,  where  the  Potomac  River  meets  Chesapeake  Bay.  Although  he 
made  no  comments  either  favorable  or  unfavorable,  when  the  time  came 
for  them  to  transfer  to  the  lighter  for  St.  Mary's  City  he  insisted  that  the 
poem  be  forwarded  aboard  the  Pilgrim  to  Ben  Bragg,  at  the  Sign  of  the 
Raven  in  Paternoster  Row. 

"But  he'll  destroy  it!"  exclaimed  the  poet.  "D'you  recall  how  I  came  by 
this  ledger  back  in  March?" 

"He'll  not  destroy  it,"  Burlingame  assured  him.  "Bragg  is  obliged  to  me 
in  ways  I  shan't  describe." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  529  ] 

There  was  no  time  to  ponder  the  proposal;  with  some  misgivings  Ebene- 
zer  allowed  his  former  tutor  to  entrust  The  Sot-Weed  Factor  to  the  bark's 
captain,  who  also  refunded  the  balance  of  his  fare  to  England,  and  the 
two  men  were  ferried  upriver  to  St.  Mary's  City. 


3:    A  COLLOQUY  BETWEEN  EX-LAUREATES  OF 
MARYLAND,  RELATING  DULY  THE  TRIALS  OF  MISS 
LUCY  ROBOTHAM  AND  CONCLUDING  WITH  AN 
ASSERTION  NOT  LIGHTLY  MATCHED  FOR  ITS 
IMPLAUSIBILITY 


NOT  LONG  AFTER  HIS  ARRIVAL  IN  THE  PROVINCE  SOME  MONTHS  PREVE- 

ously,  Governor  Francis  Nicholson  had  declared  his  intention  to  move 
the  seat  of  Maryland's  government  from  St.  Mary's  City,  which  was  un- 
happily associated  with  Lord  Baltimore,  the  Jacobean  and  Carolingian 
kings,  and  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  to  Anne  Arundel  Town  on  the 
Severn  River,  which  enjoyed  the  double  merit  of  a  central  location  on  the 
Chesapeake  and  an  altogether  Protestant  history.  Although  the  actual 
transfer  of  government  records  and  the  official  change  of  the  capital's  name 
from  Anne  Arundel  Town  to  Annapolis  were  not  to  be  effected  until  the 
end  of  February,  the  consequences  of  the  decision  were  noticeable  already 
in  St.  Mary's  City:  few  people  were  on  the  streets;  the  capitol  and  other 
public  buildings  were  virtually  deserted;  and  some  inns  and  private  houses 
were  abandoned  or  closed  and  boarded  up. 

Before  the  arched  doorway  of  the  Statehouse  Burlingame  said,  "  'Twill 
hasten  our  search  if  we  move  in  separate  directions;  you  enquire  at  the 
wharves  and  taverns  hereabouts,  and  I  shall  do  likewise  farther  in  the  town. 
At  dusk  we'll  meet  here  and  go  to  supper—God  grant  your  sister  will  be 
dining  with  us  too!" 

Ebenezer  agreed  to  the  proposal  and  to  the  wish  as  well,  for  though  the 
prospect  of  confronting  Anna,  after  Burlingame's  revelations,  was  a  discon- 
certing one,  yet  he  feared  for  her  safety  alone  in  the  Province. 

"But  if  perchance  we  find  her,"  he  asked  with  a  little  smile,  "what  then?" 

"Why,  haply  Coode  will  find  some  way  to  snatch  Cooke's  Point  from 
William  Smith,  and  then,  when  Andrew  hath  returned  in  peace  to  Eng- 
land, the  three  of  us  will  make  our  home  in  Maiden.  Or  haply  we'll  fly  to 


[  53°  1  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 


Pennsylvania,  as  your  father  suspects  already:  Anna,  if  she'll  have  me,  shall 
become  Mrs.  Nicholas  Lowe,  and  you,  under  a  nom  de  plume,  poet 
laureate  to  William  Penn!  Tis  a  wondrous  tonic  for  defeat,  to  murther  an 
old  self  and  beget  a  newl  But  we  must  hatch  our  chickens  ere  we  count 
'em." 

The  two  then  separated,  Burlingame  heading  inland  and  Ebenezer  to- 
wards an  inn  not  far  from  where  they  stood.  Upon  entering  he  found  a 
dozen  or  more  townspeople  eating  and  drinking  and  could  not  at  once 
muster  courage  enough  to  make  his  inquiries.  He  had  not  the  small, 
prerequisite  effrontery  of  the  journalist  or  canvasser,  for  one  thing;  for  an- 
other, he  was  still  too  confounded  by  events  of  the  immediate  past  to  know 
clearly  how  he  should  feel  about  his  present  position.  When  was  it  he  had 
finished  The  Sot-Weed  Factor  in  his  room  at  Maiden?  Only  the  previous 
evening,  though  it  seemed  a  fortnight  past;  yet  since  that  time  he  had  been 
given  to  assimilate  no  fewer  than  twelve  perfectly  astounding  facts,  each 
warranting  the  most  careful  contemplations  and  modification  of  his  posi- 
tion, and  some  requiring  immediate  and  drastic  action: 
He  had  become  the  indentured  servant  of  Maiden's  master. 
His  father  was  in  Maryland  and  en  route  to  Cooke's  Point. 
His  wife  Susan  Warren  was  in  fact  his  Joan  Toast  of  London. 
But  she  was  a  slave  to  opium,  a  victim  of  the  pox,  and  a  whore  to  the 

Indians  of  Dorchester. 
Moreover  she  had  been  raped  by  the  Moor  Boabdil,  and  almost  by  Ebene- 

zer himself. 

He  had  in  deserting  her  committed  the  most  thoroughly  and  least  equivo- 
cally dishonorable  act  of  his  entire  life—  indeed,  the  very  first  of 
any  magnitude,  not  counting  his  thwarted  ill  intentions  aboard  the 
Cyprian  and  at  Captain  Mitchell's  manor. 

Lord  Baltimore  might  not  at  all  represent,  as  he  had  supposed,  the  very 

essence  of  Good,  and  Coode  the  essence  of  Evil,  but  vice  versa,  if 

Burlingame  spoke  truly;  and  Andrew  might  well  be  party  to  an 

enormously  vicious  plot. 

His  tutor  Burlingame  had  been,  perhaps,  a  loyal  friend  after  all,  and 

was  inflamed  with  passion  for  Ebenezer  and  Anna  as  one. 
*  His  sister  was  at  that  moment  somewhere  in  the  Province/ 
She  was  a  virgin  to  that  day,  despite  her  intimacy  with  Burlingame. 
She  loved  not  Burlingame  but  her  brother,  in  a  way  too  dark  and  deep 
for  her  cognition. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  531  ] 

And  he  himself  had  no  direction,  aim,  or  prospect  whatsoever  for  the 
future,  but  was  as  orphan  in  the  world  as  was  Burlingame,  without 
that  gentleman's  corporal,  financial,  intellectual,  experiential,  or  spir- 
itual resources. 

With  these  propositions  very  nearly  unhinging  his  Reason,  how  could  he 
approach  the  strangers  and  calmly  put  his  question?  Even  their  mildly  curi- 
ous stare  upon  his  entrance  set  his  stomach  a-quiver  and  his  face  afire.  His 
small  resolution  vanished;  with  some  of  the  money  entrusted  to  him  by 
Joan  Toast  he  purchased  his  first  meal  since  the  previous  day  and,  when  it 
was  eaten,  he  left  the  inn.  For  some  minutes  he  wandered  unsystematically 
through  the  several  rude  streets  of  the  town,  as  though  in  hopes  of  glimps- 
ing Anna  herself  on  one  of  them.  Had  the  season  permitted,  he  would 
doubtless  have  continued  thus  all  day,  for  want  of  courage  refusing  to 
comprehend  in  what  serious  straits  his  sister  might  well  languish,  and  then 
at  sundown  have  reported  with  a  sigh  to  Burlingame  that  his  inquiries  had 
borne  no  fruit.  But  the  wet  wind  off  St.  Mary's  River  soon  chilled  him 
through;  he  was  obliged  to  take  refuge  in  another  nameless  public  house, 
the  only  other  tavern  he  had  observed,  and  order  rum  to  still  the  chatter- 
ing of  his  teeth. 

This  establishment  was,  he  observed,  less  elegantly  appointed  than  its 
competitor:  the  floor  was  paved  with  oystershells,  the  tables  were  bare  of 
cloths,  and  in  the  air  hung  a  compound  fragrance  of  stale  smoke,  stale 
beer,  and  stale  seafood.  This  last  smell  seemed  to  come  not  so  much  from 
the  tavern's  cuisine  as  from  the  damp  coats  of  its  patrons,  who  in  other 
respects  as  well  appeared  to  be  fishermen.  Not  so  curious  as  the  clientele  of 
the  inn  where  he  had  dined,  they  paid  Ebenezer  no  notice  whatever,  but 
went  on  with  their  talk  of  seines  and  the  weather,  or  fingered  beards  and 
brooded  into  their  glasses.  Although  their  indifference  removed  any  pos- 
sibility of  Ebenezer's  interrogating  them,  at  the  same  time  it  permitted  him 
to  feel  less  uneasy  in  their  presence;  he  was  able  to  move  his  chair  nearer 
the  fireplace  and  was  even  emboldened,  as  he  sipped  his  rum,  to  survey 
the  other  customers  more  closely. 

In  one  comer  of  the  room,  once  his  eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the  meager 
light,  he  noticed  a  man  sleeping  with  head,  arms,  and  chest  upon  the  table. 
Whether  liquor,  despair,  or  mere  fatigue  was  the  soporific,  the  poet  could 
not  tell,  but  his  heart  beat  faster  at  the  sight,  for  though  the  fellow  was  no 
cleaner  nor  less  ragged  than  his  companions,  his  coat  in  better  days  had 
been  not  the  honest  Scotch  cloth  of  the  laborer,  but  plum-colored  serge 


[532]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

and  silver-grey  prunella— a  very  twin  to  the  one  Ebenezer  had  worn  to  his 
audience  with  Lord  Baltimore  and  had  packed  next  day  in  his  trunk  to 
bring  to  Maryland!  That  there  could  be  two  such  coats  was  most  unlikely, 
for  Ebenezer  had  chosen  the  goods  himself  and  had  them  tailored  to  the 
style  of  the  moment,  which  was  scarcely  to  be  seen  outside  London; 
nevertheless  he  dared  not  risk  a  scene  by  waking  the  fellow,  and  so  signaled 
for  more  rum  instead  and  asked  the  waiter  who  the  slumbering  chap 
might  be. 

"Haply  'tis  Governor  Nicholson,  or  King  William,"  the  man  replied. 
"  Tis  not  my  wont  to  pry  into  my  patrons'  lives." 

'To  be  sure,  to  be  sure,"  Ebenezer  persisted,  and  pressed  two  shillings 
into  his  hand.  "But  'tis  of  some  small  importance  that  I  know." 

The  waiter  examined  the  coins  and  seemed  to  find  them  satisfactory. 
"The  fact  is,"  he  declared,  "nobody  knows  just  who  the  wight  may  be,  as  I 
said  before,  albeit  he  hires  his  bed  upstairs  and  eats  his  meals  at  yonder 
table." 

"What's  this!  Ye  want  two  shillings  for  that  news?" 

The  waiter  held  up  an  admonitory  finger  and  explained  that  the  sleeping 
man  was  no  stranger  to  St.  Mary's— indeed,  he  had  frequented  the  tavern 
for  some  months  past—but  current  rumor  had  it  that  his  declared  identity 
was  false. 

"He  hath  given  all  and  sundry  to  believe  he  is  the  Laureate  Poet  of 
Maryland,  name  of  Ebenezer  Cooke,  but  either  he's  the  grandest  swindler 
that  ever  prowled  St.  Mary's,  or  else  he  is  afraid  of  his  very  shadow." 

Ebenezer  betrayed  such  considerable  interest  in  this  statement  that  to 
hear  it  glossed  set  him  back  another  shilling. 

"He  came  to  St.  Mary's  last  September  or  October,"  the  waiter  went 
on,  pocketing  the  money,  "though  whence  or  how  no  man  knows  truly, 
since  the  fleet  was  come  and  gone  some  weeks  before.  He  was  dressed  in 
the  clothes  ye  see  there,  that  were  splendid  then  as  a  St.  Paul  fop's,  and 
had  a  wondrous  swaggering  air,  and  declared  he  was  the  Laureate  of  Mary- 
land, Eben  Cooke." 

'TChrist,  the  fraud!"  Ebenezer  exclaimed.  "Did  no  man  doubt  him?" 

"He  had  his  share  of  hecklers;  that  he  did,"  the  waiter  conceded. 
"Whene'er  they  asked  him  for  a  verse  he'd  say  The  muse  sings  not  in 
taverns/  or  some  such;  and  when  they  asked  him  how  he  was  so  lately 
come  from  England,  he  declared  he'd  been  kidnaped  by  the  pirates  from 
Jim  Meech's  boat  Poseidon  ere  the  fleet  reached  the  Capes,  and  was  later 
cast  o'erside  to  drown,  but  swam  ashore  and  found  himself  in  Maryland. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  533  ] 

The  wags  and  wits  had  fun  at  his  expense,  but  his  story  was  borne  out 
anon  by  Colonel  Robotham  himself,  the  Councillor " 

"Nay!" 

The  waiter  nodded  firmly.  "The  Colonel  and  his  daughter  had  crossed 
with  him  on  the  Poseidon  and  had  seen  him  kidnaped,  along  with  his 
servant  and  three  sailors,  that  have  ne'er  been  heard  from  since.  Some 
skeptical  souls  still  doubt  the  fellow's  story,  for  he  hath  spoke  not  a  line 
of  verse  these  many  months,  and  to  set  him  in  a  panic  one  need  only 
mention  his  father  Andrew's  name,  or  the  name  of  his  father-in-law." 

"Father-in-law!"  Ebenezer  rose  from  his  chair.  "You  mean  William 
Smith,  the  cooper?" 

"I  know  no  cooper  named  Smith,"  the  waiter  laughed.  "I  mean  Colonel 
Robotham  of  Talbot,  that  was  persuaded  enough  to  take  him  for  a  son- 
in-law,  but  hath  learned  since  of  another  wight  that's  said  to  be  Eben 
Cooke!  He  means  to  file  suit  against  the  impostor,  but  in  the  meantime 
this  fellow  here  so  fears  him " 

"No  more,"  Ebenezer  said  grimly.  "I've  heard  enough."  Leaving  his  fresh 
glass  of  rum  untouched  he  strode  unhesitatingly  to  the  sleeper's  table,  and 
as  soon  as  he  saw  that  it  was  in  fact  his  valet  Bertrand  Burton  who  slum- 
bered there,  he  shook  him  by  the  shoulders  with  both  hands. 

"Wake  up,  wretch!  Wake  up!" 

If  rum  was  his  anesthetic,  Bertrand  had  slept  away  its  influence;  he  sat 
up  at  once,  and  his  alarm  at  being  awakened  thus  ungently  turned  to 
horror  when  he  saw  who  had  been  shaking  him. 

"Base  conniver!"  Ebenezer  whispered  fiercely.  "What  have  you  done 
now?" 

"Stay,  Master  Eben,  stay!"  the  valet  whispered  back,  glancing  miserably 
about  to  judge  the  peril  of  his  position.  But  the  other  patrons,  if  they 
had  observed  the  scene  at  all,  were  watching  with  the  idlest  curiosity  and 
amusement:  they  showed  no  signs  of  understanding  the  confrontation. 
"Let's  leave  this  place  ere  ye  speak  another  word!  I've  much  to  tell  ye!" 

"And  I  thee,"  the  poet  replied  unpleasantly.  "So  thou'rt  afraid  some- 
what for  your  welfare,  Master  Laureate?" 

"With  reason,"  Bertrand  admitted,  still  glancing  about.  "But  more  for 
your  own,  sir,  and  for  your  sister  Anna's!" 

Ebenezer  gripped  the  man's  wrists.  "Curse  your  heait,  man!  What  do 
you  know  of  Anna?" 

"Not  here!"  the  valet  pleaded.  "Come  to  my  room  upstairs,  where  we 
may  speak  without  fear." 


I  534  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"'Tis  yours  to  fear,  not  mine,"  Ebenezer  said,  but  permitted  Bertrand 
to  get  up  without  further  comment  and  lead  the  way  upstairs.  The  valet 
was  clothed  from  wig  to  slippers,  he  observed,  with  articles  from  his  trunk, 
all  now  much  the  worse  for  wear  and  want  of  cleaning;  but  the  man  him- 
self, though  blear-eyed  with  sleep  and  trepidation,  had  clearly  much  im- 
proved his  lot  by  playing  laureate.  When  last  Ebenezer  had  seen  him  they 
were  both  in  the  condition  of  castaways:  shoeless,  wigless,  and  thin,  with 
shredded  garments  and  matted  beards;  now  he  was  well  fleshed  out,  and 
dignified  even  in  his  dishevelment— unquestionably  a  more  prepossessing 
figure  than  his  master.  By  the  time  they  entered  Bertrand's  room,  the  only 
furnishings  of  which  were  a  bed,  a  chair,  and  a  pitcher-stand,  Ebenezer 
could  scarcely  contain  his  indignation. 

But  the  valet  spoke  first.  "How  is't  thou'rt  here,  sir?  I  thought  ye  were 
a  prisoner  at  Maiden." 

"You  knewl"  Ebenezer  paled.  'Tou  knew  my  wretched  state  and 
exploited  it!"  His  anger  so  weakened  him  that  he  was  obliged  to  take 
the  chair. 

"Pray  hear  my  side  oft,"  Bertrand  begged.  "Tis  true  I  played  your  part 
at  first  from  vanity,  but  anon  I  was  obliged  to— will-I»  nill-I— and  since 
I  heard  of  your  imprisonment,  my  only  aim  hath  been  to  do  ye  a  service." 

"I  know  thy  services!"  the  poet  snarled.  "  Twas  in  my  service  you  gam- 
bled away  my  savings  aboard  the  Poseidon  and  got  me  a  name  for  seducing 
the  ladies  into  the  bargain!" 

But  Bertrand,  little  daunted,  insisted  on  explaining  his  position  more 
fully,  and  Ebenezer,  though  he  frowned  his  disapproval  from  start  to  finish 
and  was  not  sparing  of  sarcastic  commentary,  made  no  attempt  to  cut  him 
off. 

"No  man  wishes  more  than  I,"  the  valet  declared,  "that  I  had  stayed 
behind  in  London  with  my  Betsy  and  let  my  poor  cod  take  its  chances 
with  Ralph  Birdsall— Better  a  shive  lost  than  the  whole  loaf,  as  they  say. 
But  Fate  would  have  it  otherwise,  and " 

"Put  by  thy  whining  preamble,"  his  master  ordered,  "and  get  on  with 
thy  lying  tale." 

"What  I  mean  to  say,  sir,  there  I  was,  half  round  the  globe  from  my 
heart's  desire,  abused  and  left  to  drown  by  the  cursed  pirates,  and  farther 
disappointed  at  the  loss  of  my  ocean  isle " 

"The  loss  of  your  ocean  isle!" 

"Aye,  sir— what  I  mean,  'tis  not  every  day  a  man  sees  seven  golden  cities 
slip  through  his  fingers,  as't  were,  to  say  nothing  of  all  my  fair-skinned 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  535  ] 

heathen  wenches,  that  would  do  whatever  dev'lish  naughty  trick  might 
cross  my  fancy,  and  fetch  me  cakes  and  small-beer  by  the  hour " 

"Go  to,,  go  to,  thou'rt  slavering!"  said  the  poet. 

"And  there  was  my  noble  Drakepecker,  bless  his  heart— big  and  bkck 
as  a  Scotland  bull,  and  man  enough  to  crack  the  Whore  o'  Babylon,  but 
withal  as  meek  a  parishioner  as  any  god  could  boast— that  ye  lightly  gave 
away  to  nurse  an  ill-odored  salvage " 

44  'Sheart,  man,  pass  o'er  the  history  and  commence  thy  fabrication!  I 
was  there!" 

With  this  assertion  Bertrand  declared  he  had  no  quarrel.  "The  sole  aim 
of  my  relating  it,"  he  said,  "is  to  help  ye  grasp  the  pity  of  my  straits  what 
time  the  sluttish  swine-girl  told  us  this  was  Maryland,  and  I  was  obliged 
to  fall  from  Heav'n  to  Hell,  as't  were." 

"Be't  thy  pitiful  straits  or  thy  craven  neck,"  the  poet  responded,  "I'll 

do  my  grasping  without  thy  help.  As  for  the  swine-girl "  He  hesitated, 

thought  better  of  announcing  his  marriage,,  and  demanded  instead  that 
the  servant  begin  with  his  arrival  in  St.  Mary's  City  nearly  three  months 
previously  and  account  for  his  subsequent  behavior  in  a  fashion  as  brief 
and  clear  as  such  a  concatenation  of  chicaneries  might  permit. 

"My  one  wish  is  to  do  that  very  thing,  sir,"  Bertrand  protested.  "  *Tis 
that  first  pose  alone  I  beg  forgiveness  for,  and  thought  to  whiten  by  this 
preamble— the  rest  is  deserving  more  of  favor  than  reproof,  and  I  shall  lay 
it  open  to  ye  as  readily  as  I  did  to  your  poor  sister,  and  would  to  Master 
Andrew  himself,  that  first  sent  me  to  ye  in  Pudding  Lane  for  no  other 
purpose  in  the  wide,  wicked  world " 

"Than  what?"  Ebenezer  cried.  "Than  stealing  my  name  and  office  to 
do  a  Councillor  out  of  his  daughter?  May  the  murrain  carry  me  off  if  I 
do  not  flay  an  honest  English  sentence  from  your  hide!" 

"-—than  advising  and  protecting  ye,"  Bertrand  said,  and  when  his  master 
made  as  if  to  spring  upon  him  he  retreated  to  the  other  side  of  the  bed 
and  hastened  to  tell  his  story.  The  revelation  that  they  were  in  Maryland 
instead  of  Cibola,  he  explained,  and  consequently  that  he  was  no  longer 
a  deity  but  only  a  common  servant,  had  so  filled  him  with  dejection  that 
when  on  orders  from  Timothy  Mitchell  he  had  gone  with  another  servant 
to  fetch  Ebenezer's  trunk,  he  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  pose  as 
poet  laureate,  only  for  the  term  of  the  errand,  in  ministry  to  his  sorely 
wounded  pride.  He  had  therefore  declared  to  his  companion  that  he  him- 
self was  in  reality  Ebenezer  Cooke  and  the  man  at  Captain  Mitchell's 


[  536  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

his  servant,  and  that  they  had  exchanged  roles  temporarily  as  a  precaution- 
ary measure.  However,  he  had  continued,  their  reception  in  the  Province 
had  been  cordial  enough,  and  the  disguise  was  no  longer  necessary.  They 
had  then  fetched  the  trunk  in  the  name  of  Ebenezer  Cooke,  and  after 
securing  the  night's  lodgings  for  master  and  man,  Bertrand  had  struck  out 
on  his  own  to  make  the  most  of  his  short-term  office. 

"All  went  well/'  he  sighed,  "until  the  hour  I  left  Vansweringen's  place, 
up  the  street.  The  sun  was  still  high,  and  I  was  somewhat  dagged  with 
rum;  whilst  I  stood  a  moment  to  take  my  bearings  and  ease  my  eyes,  a 
fine  young  lady  comes  a-weeping  up  as  pretty  as  ye  please,  throws  her  arms 
about  my  neck,  and  cries  out  'Darling  Ebenezer!'  and  the  like.  'Twas  Lucy 
Robotham,  that  same  tart  that  plagued  me  so  on  the  Poseidon  and  that 
had  thought  me  long  since  murthered  by  the  pirates!" 

For  old  times'  sake,  Bertrand  went  on,  he  had  bought  dinner  at  Vanswer- 
ingen's  for  Miss  Robotham,  whose  father  was  in  St.  Mary's  to  sit  with 
the  Council,  and  when  she  removed  her  coat  to  eat  he  had  observed,  to 
his  surprise,  that  she  was  pregnant.  Upon  his  interrogating  her  (Ebenezer 
winced  at  the  thought)  she  burst  into  fresh  tears  and  confessed  that  on 
reaching  Maryland  she  had  been  deceived  into  marrying  the  Reverend 
Mr.  George  Tubman,  the  same  whose  speculative  talents  had  impoverished 
half  the  Poseidon's  passengers,  and  had  been  by  him  impregnated  in  the 
rectory  of  Port  Tobacco  parish,  only  to  learn  not  long  after  that  their 
marriage  was  illegal,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Tubman  having  neglected  to 
divorce  his  first  wife  in  London.  Colonel  Robotham  had  arranged  at  once 
for  annulment  of  the  marriage  and  had  further  applied  to  the  Bishop  for 
proceedings  of  suspension  against  both  Tubman  and  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Peregrine  Cony,  who  he  averred  had  knowingly  licensed  his  colleague's 
bigamous  union,  but  the  Colonel's  influence  in  the  Province  had  as  yet 
been  unable  to  provide  another  husband  for  Lucy  or  retard  the  growing 
signs  of  her  condition,  which  along  with  the  reputation  she  had  got  for 
promiscuity  had  all  but  removed  her  from  the  gentleman's  list  of  eligible 
maidens. 

"I  saw  then  the  reason  for  her  joy  at  finding  me  alive,"  the  valet  said, 
"and  I  made  a  great  show  of  sympathy,  albeit  I'd  not  have  married  her 
as  Bertrand  Burton,  much  less  as  Eben  Cooke!  A  house  already  made,  as 
the  saying  goes,  but  a  wife  to  make.  Yet  I  kept  my  feelings  hid,  nor  showed 
by  word  or  deed  that  I  had  grasped  her  scurvy  trick.  On  the  contrary, 
I  played  the  gallant  Laureate  with  right  good  will,  the  better  to  learn 
what  else  the  wench  had  up  her  sleeve." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  537  ] 

"And  so  resume  where  you  had  left  off  on  the  Poseidon,  I  doubt  not." 

Bertrand  raised  his  finger.  "I'll  not  deny  we  had  some  sport  ere  the  day 
was  done,"  he  said  righteously.  "I  had  been  the  De'il's  own  time  'twixt 
drinks,  as't  were,  and  longed  to  see  again  that  famous  emblem  Lucy  boasts. 
Tis  all  in  freckles,  b'm'faith,  and " 

"I  know,  I  know,"  Ebenezer  said  impatiently.  "  Tis  the  likeness  of  Ursa 
Major,  and  the  rest." 

Bertrand  clucked  his  tongue  before  the  memory.  "Besides,  there  is  an 
uncommon  pleasure  in  lasses  lately  got  with  child " 

"Nay,  i'God,  you  sicken  me!  Thou'rt  a  Frenchman,  or  a  jaded  Moor, 
to  crave  such  refinements!" 

"In  any  case,"  the  valet  finished  with  a  shrug,  "I  reasoned  'twas  no  more 
than  the  doxy's  due,  that  had  done  ye  out  o'  your  money  with  her  crooked 
odds  and  wagers." 

"I  say!"  cried  Ebenezer.  "Speaking  of  wagers " 

"Say  no  more,"  Bertrand  interrupted  with  a  smile.  "The  selfsame  query 
was  on  my  mind  from  the  instant  I  beheld  her,  and  directly  the  time  be- 
fitted, I  asked  her  straight  who  had  won  that  last  monster  of  a  ship's  pool, 
wherein  I'd  wagered  the  whole  o'  Cooke's  Point  at  Jewman's  odds  to  regain 
the  money  I  had  lost  before.  At  first  she'd  not  reply,  but  when  I  offer'd 
her  my  belt  athwart  her  hams—as  I  was  wont  to  swat  sweet  Betsy  what 
times  she'd  tease— why,  then  I  wrung  the  truth  from  her,  which  was,  that 
she  herself,  by  collusion  with  Tubman  and  that  whoreson  Captain  Meech, 
had  won  the  prizel" 

"FChrist!" 

The  winnings,  Bertrand  went  on,  had  then  been  divided  between  the 
three  partners,  and  Tubman  had  increased  his  share  by  the  impregnation 
and  marriage  (respectively,  it  now  turned  out)  of  Miss  Robotham.  As  soon 
as  the  conveyances  of  property  were  duly  effected  he  had  disclosed  the 
bigamous  nature  of  the  match,  hoping  thereby  to  rid  himself  of  the  girl; 
but  he  had  reckoned  without  the  ire  of  his  new  father-in-law,  Colonel 
Robotham,  who  had  promptly  exposed  the  business  and  taken  the  legal 
action  mentioned  earlier. 

"But  what  of  the  property?"  Ebenezer  demanded.  "Doth  Tubman  hold 
title  to  it  yet?" 

The  valet  smiled.  "To  the  most  he  did,  at  the  time  I  speak  of,  and 
to  the  most  he  doth  yetr  for  aught  I  know  to  the  contrary.  But  aside  from 
my  own  wager,  all  his  winnings  were  in  cash  or  chattels,  such  as  horses, 


[538]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

pirogues,  and  hogsheads  o'  sot-weed.  Cooke's  Point  was  the  only  proper 
estate  he  won " 

"God  curse  you  for  wagering  it!"  swore  the  poet. 

Bertrand  raised  his  eyebrows.  "Haply  'twas  not  such  a  folly  after  all,  sir. 
The  wretch  had  ne'er  before  won  such  a  prize,  and  more  especially  as  he 
thought  us  murthered  by  the  pirates,  he  was  afraid  to  press  his  claim,  for 
fear  the  courts  would  leam  the  evil  of  his  ways." 

"'Twould  but  improve  his  chances  if  they  did,"  Ebenezer  said,  but 
there  was  relief  in  his  surly  tone.  "An  honest  wight  fares  ill  in  a  Maryland 
court.  Go  on," 

In  consequence,  Bertrand  declared,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Tubman  had  con- 
tented himself  with  what  winnings  he  could  collect  as  gentleman's  debts 
from  the  bettors  themselves,  out  of  court,  and  in  an  effort  to  appease  Colo- 
nel Robotham's  wrath  on  the  occasion  of  the  annulment,  had  reconveyed 
to  Lucy  his  note  of  title  to  Cooke's  Point,  not  many  days  prior  to  her  en- 
counter with  the  note's  original  author. 

"She  was  as  doubtful  as  old  Tubman  how  the  courts  might  rule  on't," 
said  the  valet.  "  Twas  her  hope  I'd  make  over  the  deed  to  her  as  a  gentle- 
man ought,  particularly  in  the  light  of  her  condition,  but  when  I  gave 
no  signs  of  such  intent,  she  could  no  more  than  weep  and  threaten." 

His  next  move,  he  explained,  had  been  to  send  the  other  servant  back 
to  Captain  Mitchell  as  Timothy  had  directed  and  make  plans  to  ferry  him- 
self and  his  freight  to  Maiden.  However,  reckoning  that  his  master  would 
allow  for  unforseen  delays  and  complications  in  securing  and  transporting 
the  trunk,  he  had  lingered  another  day  in  St.  Mary's  as  the  guest  of  Colonel 
Robotham,  and  another  and  another  after  that,  loath  to  relinquish  the 
charms  of  office  and  Lucy's  desperate  favors.  During  this  period  his  host 
and  mistress  had  alternately  cajoled  and  threatened  him:  their  primary  goal 
was  to  unite  by  marriage  the  houses  of  Cooke  and  Robotham,  and  solve 
hereby  all  their  problems  with  one  stroke;  alternatively  they  vowed  to 
carry  the  matter  into  court,  despite  the  uncertain  legality  of  their  claim, 
in  hopes  that  with  Cooke's  Point  for  dowry  even  a  pregnant  tart  could 
find  a  willing  spouse  of  decent  lineage.  But  since  neither  party  could  bargain 
from  a  position  of  clear  strength,  the  argument  was  confined  to  subtle  hints 
and  equivocal  negations,  and  Bertrand,  having  dispatched  the  trunk  some 
days  before,  had  enjoyed  a  week  of  such  leisurely  diversions  and  delights 
as  most  valets  taste  only  in  their  dreams. 

At  week's  end,  however,  he  had  heard  from  an  unimpeachable  barman 
in  Vansweringen's  that  a  man  called  Eben  Cooke,  on  the  Eastern  Shore, 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  539  ] 

had  signed  over  his  whole  estate  to  a  common  cooper— whether  in  some 
saintly  spirit  of  justice,  in  satisfaction  of  some  dark  and  sinister  obligation 
or  merely  in  error  was  much  debated— and  that,  the  conveyance  being  ap- 
parently legal,  Cooke  himself  had  fallen  mortally  ill  and  was  being  cared 
for  on  his  lost  estate,  in  return  for  marrying  the  cooper's  whore  of  a  daughter. 

'This  news  near  felled  me  where  I  stood,"  the  valet  said.  "No  man 
doubted  I  was  really  Eben  Cooke— for  ye  must  grant,  sir,  whatever  thy  prin- 
ciples, I've  a  knack  for  playing  poet— but  they  expected  me  to  fly  to  Dorset 
at  once  and  turn  both  the  cooper  and  the  rascally  impostor  out.  What's 
more,  'twas  terrible  to  hear  what  had  befallen  ye,  and  more  terrible  yet 
to  think  of  ye  lying  at  death's  door,  as't  were,  and  obliged  to  marry  some 
unwashed  coney  of  a  serving  maid " 

Ebenezer  held  up  his  hand.  "Forego  thy  wondrous  pity,"  he  said  dan- 
gerously. "I'm  sure  it  soured  your  dinner  at  the  Colonel's  and  made  you 
a  zestless  lover  for  Miss  Lucy." 

"The  heart  hath  no  defense  against  your  understanding!"  Bertrand  mar- 
veled. "It  did  no  less  than  what  ye  say— though  of  course  I  durst  not  give 
the  slightest  outward  sign  oft" 

"Of  course  not." 

Instead,  declared  Bertrand,  he  had  confessed  to  Colonel  Robotham  that 
the  same  pernicious  traitors  to  the  King  who  had  arranged  to  have  him 
kidnaped  and  murdered  by  pirates  were  attempting  to  work  his  ruin  in 
the  Province,  lest  by  the  power  of  his  pen  he  expose  their  seditious  plots 
to  the  light  of  day.  It  was  in  anticipation  of  their  schemes  that  he  had 
sent  his  man  before  him  to  reconnoiter  in  the  guise  of  Laureate— that  same 
presumptuous  amanuensis  who  had  served  him  thus,  unasked,  on  earlier 
occasions— little  dreaming  that  the  strategem  would  so  misfire.  The  Colonel 
then,  eager  to  obligate  his  guest  in  any  way  he  could,  offered  to  intercede 
at  once  with  Governor  Nicholson,  who  had  a  perfect  hatred  even  of  debate, 
to  say  nothing  of  insurrection;  but  Bertrand  proposed  a  quite  different  plan 
of  attack,  so  agreeable  to  the  Robothams  that  as  one  they  laid  down  their 
euchre-hands  and  tearfully  embraced  him. 

"I  wait  in  mortal  fear  to  hear  it,"  said  the  poet. 

"'Twas  as  simple  as  it  was  effective,"  the  valet  sighed,  "—or  so  it 
seemed  at  the  time  I  hatched  it.  I  proposed  to  keep  the  matter  entre 
nous " 

"Entre  nous?  Marry,  thou'rt  learning  to  scheme  in  French!" 

Bertrand  blushed.  "  Tis  a  word  Lucy  uses  whene'er  she  means  to  have 
profit  at  some  other  wight's  expense.  My  plan,  I  say,,  was  to  keep  the  matter 


[  540  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

entre  nous  untill  knew  more  of  your  plight  and  how  I  best  might  aid  ye; 
I  saw  no  merit  in  discovering  my  true  name  and  rank  to  the  Robothams, 
nor  in  risking  my  disguise  by  taking  my  troubles  to  the  Governor,  I  de- 
clared Fd  given  ye  the  power  of  attorney,  the  better  to  carry  out  your  pose 
as  Laureate,  and  that  this  power  lent  the  cooper's  title  to  Cooke's  Point 
a  certain  slender  substance,  if  'twere  contested  in  a  biased  court;  for  albeit 
the  grant  was  made  by  a  false  Laureate  (so  I  told  the  Colonel),  yet  the 
impostor  was  my  legal  agent  and  proxy,  empowered  to  do  any  business  in 
my  name." 

"I  swear,  thou'rt  as  grand  a  casuist  as  Richard  Sowter!"  Ebenezer  said, 
and  Bertrand,  to  whom  the  term  was  no  more  familiar  than  the  man, 
beamed  and  took  the  remark  as  complimentary. 

"'Tis  but  the  giblet-sauce  and  dressing  to  what  followed,  sir:  on  the 
heels  oft  I  proposed  to  many  Mistress  Lucy  on  the  instant  and  offered 
as  my  reason  that,  though  her  claim  as  such  had  no  more  law  in't  than 
a  bumswipe,  yet  'twas  prior  to  any  .the  traitors  might  shark  up;  if  I  was 
to  support  it  as  author  of  the  note,  husband  of  the  claimant,  and  bona 
fide  Laureate  o'  Maryland,  'twould  carry  the  day  in  the  Devil's  own  as- 
sizes!" 

"Marry  come  up!"  the  poet  exclaimed.  'Tou  meant  to  steal  my  estate 
to  go  with  my  name  and  office!" 

"'Twas  stolen  already,"  Bertrand  reminded  him.  "I  meant  to  steal  it 
back  to  its  rightful  owner,  if  I  could,  whereupon  I'd  declare  my  actual 
name,  and  Lucy  Robotham  could  go  hang  for  all  she'd  be  my  legal  wife!" 
The  Colonel,  he  added,  had  been  pleased  with  this  proposal,  and  Lucy 
more  than  pleased;  the  marriage  had  been  solemnized  at  once  and  con- 
summated beyond  cavil,  and  although  he  had  not  been  able,  as  he  had 
hoped,  to  enter  on  Lucy's  note  a  clause  of  relinquishment  in  favor  of 
her  husband,  nonetheless  he  considered  Cooke's  Point  saved. 

"I  am  staggered  by  this  duplicity!"  Ebenezer  said.  "Where  is  this  miser- 
*  able  creature  you've  deceived,  and  her  poor  father?  How  is't  thou'rt  cower- 
ing in  this  tavern  instead  of  lording  it  at  Maiden?" 

"Colonel  Robotham  hath  been  on  business  up  the  country  these  two 
months,"  Bertrand  sighed,  "and  his  daughter  hath  been  with  him  at  my 
behest.  I  declared  she  was  in  danger  from  the  traitors  and  must  stay  with 
her  father  at  least  till  her  confinement;  but  the  truth  oft  was,  I  had  been 
living  at  the  Colonel's  whole  expense  and  would  be  revealed  an  arrant 
pauper  the  day  he  left.  'Twas  my  good  fortune  Lucy  had  a  few  pounds 
saved,  that  she  entrusted  to  my  keeping:  'twas  just  enough  to  buy  my 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  54*  ] 

food  and  drink,  and  pay  the  hire  for  this  verminous  chamber."  In  vain, 
he  said,  had  he  endeavored  to  leam  more  news  of  Ebenezer's  plight 
and  to  set  in  motion  the  legal  strategy  he  had  devised:  his  hands  were  tied 
for  lack  of  money  and  influence  until  the  Colonel's  return. 

"And  in  any  case,  the  game  is  o'er/'  he  concluded  gloomily.  "Colonel 
Robotham  will  return  next  week  to  Talbot,  and  if  he  doth  not  learn  the 
truth  from  your  father,  he  must  guess  it  when  he  sees  the  state  Fm  in. 
Or  else  Master  Andrew  himself  will  search  me  out  here  when  he  learns 
thou'rt  not  at  Maiden— I  had  ne'er  escaped  him  this  last  time  had  your 
sister  not  forewarned  me  he  was  coming " 

"Where  did  you  find  Anna,  and  where  is  she  now?" 

"  'Twas  she  found  me,"  said  Bertrand,  "the  very  day  she  stepped  ashore 
in  Maryland.  She  came  to  find  you  in  this  room,  where  all  St.  Mary's 
knows  the  Laureate  hath  been  quartered,  and  at  first  I  scarcely  knew  her, 
she  hath  aged  so." 

Ebenezer  winced. 

"She  was  as  taken  aback  at  sight  of  me  as  was  I  at  sight  of  her,  that 
each  thought  the  other  was  in  England.  I  told  her  what  I  knew  about 
your  straits,  without  mentioning  my  own,  and  for  all  I  begged  her  not  to 
rush  in  recklessly,  there  was  naught  for't  but  she  cross  the  Bay  that  after- 
noon, traitors  or  no,  and  either  nurse  ye  back  to  health  or  be  murthered 
at  your  graveside." 

"Dear,  darling  Anna!"  Ebenezer  cried,  and  blushed  when  he  recalled 
Burlingame's  discourse  of  the  morning.  "What  happened  then?" 

"She  found  passage  in  a  sloop  for  the  Little  Choptank  River,"  said  Ber- 
trand. "I  spoke  to  her  captain  later  below  stairs,  and  he  told  me  she'd  gone 
ashore  at  a  place  called  Tobacco  Stick,  his  closest  anchorage  to  Cooke's 
Point.  Neither  I  nor  any  soul  else,  to  my  knowledge,  hath  farther  news 
of  her  than  that." 

"Merciful  God!  No  farther  news?  What  hath  possessed  the  precious  girl, 
to  travel  alone  in  this  vicious  country!  Who  knows  what  trials  she  might 
have  suffered  these  many  days,  or  what  reception  she  hath  met  with  al- 
ready from  the  cooper?"  A  thought  occurred  to  him,  so  monstrous  that 
the  gorge  rose  in  his  throat:  William  Smith  was  most  certainly  angry  over 
his  flight  from  Maiden  in  violation  of  his  indenture-bond,  and  Joan  Toast 
more  wrathful  still  at  having  been  abandoned^  suppose  poor  Anna  had 
fallen  into  their  clutches,  and  they  had  taken  revenge  on  her  for  her 
brother's  deeds! 

"Heav'n  save  her!"  he  gasped  to  Bertrand,  rising  weakly  from  the  chair. 


[  542  I  T™  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 


"They  might  have  forced  her  into  whoredom!  This  very  minute,  for  aught 
we  know,  some  greasy  planter  or  great  swart  salvage  -  " 

"Hi,  sir!  What  is't  ye  say?"  Bertrand  ran  alarmed  to  pound  his  master 
on  the  back,  who  had  fallen  into  a  fit  of  retching. 

"Hire  us  a  boat,"  Ebenezer  ordered,  as  soon  as  he  caught  his  breath. 
'We'll  set  out  for  Maiden  this  instant,  and  hang  the  consequences!"  With- 
out mentioning  his  desertion  of  Joan  Toast,  he  explained  as  briefly  as  he 
could  to  the  astonished  servant  the  fallen  state  of  Maiden,  the  circumstances 
of  his  departure,  his  rescue  by  Henry  Burlingame,  the  enormous  conspiracy 
afoot  in  the  Province,  and  the  particular  danger  awaiting  Anna  whether  or 
not  Andrew  arrived  before  her  at  Cooke's  Point,  since  his  position  was  un- 
certain. 'Til  tell  you  more  the  while  we're  crossing,"  he  promised.  "We 
daren't  lose  a  minute!" 

"I  know  a  captain  we  might  hire,"  Bertrand  ventured,  "and  I'd  as  well 
be  murthered  by  your  cooper  as  by  Colonel  Robotham  when  he  finds  me, 
but  in  truth  I've  no  more  than  a  shilling  left  of  Lucy's  money  .  .  ." 

"Callow  wretch!"  His  anger  at  the  man  fired  anew  by  this  reminder, 
Ebenezer  was  ready  to  chide  him  further  for  his  abuse  of  Lucy  Robotham, 
but  brought  himself  up  short  with  a  shiver  of  mortification.  "I've  money 
enough,"  he  grumbled,  moving  towards  the  stair,  and  offered  no  explana- 
tion of  its  source. 

At  the  waterside  they  found  the  captain  Bertrand  had  in  mind,  and 
despite  the  lateness  of  the  afternoon  and  the  unpromising  weather,  that 
gentleman  agreed,  for  the  outrageous  price  of  three  pounds  sterling,  to 
carry  them  to  Cooke's  Point  in  his  little  fishing  boat.  As  they  were  about 
to  step  aboard  Ebenezer  remembered  his  scheduled  rendezvous  at  the 
Statehouse. 

"I'faith,  I  well-nigh  forgot—  I  must  leave  word  for  Henry  Burlingame, 
that  hath  gone  to  ask  John  Coode  for  aid."  He  smiled  at  Bertrand's  sur- 
prise. "  'Tis  too  long  a  tale  to  tell  now,  but  I  will  say  this:  that  Tim  Mitchell 
who  sent  you  hither  was  not  Captain  Mitchell's  son  at  all—  'twas  Henry 
Burlingame." 

"Ye  cannot  mean  it!"  The  valet's  face  was  horror-struck. 

"No  Christian  soul  else,"  the  poet  affirmed. 

"Then  ye  have  more  need  of  prayers  than  messages,"  said  Bertrand.  "God 
help  us  all!" 

"What  rot  is  this?" 

"Your  friend  need  look  no  farther  than  his  glass  to  find  John  Coode," 
the  valet  declared.  "He  is  John  Coode!" 


4:    THE  POET  CROSSES  CHESAPEAKE  BAY,  BUT  NOT 
TO  HIS  INTENDED  PORT  OF  CALL 


"'TIS  GOSPEL  TRUTH,  I  SWEAR?T!"  BERTRAND  INSISTED.  "THERE  IS  NO 

better  place  for  news  than  a  St.  Mary's  tavern,  and  I've  had  eyes  and  ears 
wide  open  these  several  months.  'Twas  common  knowledge  amongst  his 
hirelings  that  Tim  Mitchell  was  John  Coode  in  disguise,  and  now  yeVe  told 
me  your  Master  Burlingame  was  Tim  Mitchell— b'm'faith,  I  should  have 
guessed  ere  now!  'Tis  in  the  very  stamp  and  pattern  of  the  man!" 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head.  "Tis  an  assertion  not  lightly  to  be  matched 
for  implausibility."  Nevertheless,  he  showed  no  indignation,  as  he  had  on 
other  occasions  when  the  valet  had  aspersed  his  former  tutor. 

"Nay,  sir,  believe  me;  'tis  as  clear  as  a  schoolboy's  sums!  Only  think: 
Where  did  ye  first  hear  of  this  fiend  John  Coode?" 

"From  Lord  Baltimore,  ere  I  left,"  Ebenezer  replied.  "That  is— ah,  nay, 
I'll  own,  'twas  from  Burlingame  in  the  guise  of  Baltimore.  But — " 

"And  when  did  Coode  commence  his  factions  and  rebellions  in  the 
Province?  Was't  not  the  very  year  Burlingame  came  hither?  And  is't  not 
true  that  whene'er  Master  Burlingame  is  in  England,  he  tells  ye  Coode 
is  there  too?" 

"But  Heav'n  forfend — " 

"D'ye  think  Master  Burlingame  could  pass  for  two  minutes  as  Coode 
with  Slye  and  Scurry,  much  less  make  a  three-month  crossing  in  their 
company?  'Tis  past  belief!" 

"Yet  he  hath  a  wondrous  talent  for  disguise,"  the  poet  protested. 

"Aye  and  he  doth,  b'm'faith!  From  all  I've  heard  from  yourself  and 
others,  he  hath  posed  as  Baltimore,  Coode,  Colonel  Sayer,  Tim  Mitchell, 
Bertrand  Burton,  and  Eben  Cooke,  to  mention  no  more,  and  hath  ne'er 
been  found  out  yet!  But  what's  the  chiefest  talent  of  John  Coode,  if  not 
the  same?  Hath  he  not  played  priest,  minister,  general,  and  what  have  ye? 
Is't  not  his  wont  to  travel  always  incognito,  so  that  his  own  lieutenants 
scarce  know  his  natural  face?" 

"But  he  was  six  years  my  tutor!  I  know  the  man!"  Even  as  he  made  it, 
Ebenezer  realized  the  vast  untruth  of  this  declaration.  The  fact  of  the 
matter  was,  once  he  thought  of  it  in  that  light,  he  could  supply  far  more 


[  544  3  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

evidence  than  could  Bertrand  to  establish  the  hypothesis,  at  first  so  ap- 
parently ridiculous,  that  Burlingame  and  John  Coode  were  one  and  the 
same  man.  Although  he  continued  to  shake  his  head  as  in  disbelief,  at 
their  ferryman's  suggestion  he  abandoned  the  idea  of  returning  to  the  inn 
to  leave  a  message,  and  the  fishing  sloop  made  way  down  the  St.  Mary's 
River  towards  the  Potomac,  whence  it  would  stand  northwards  up  the  Bay 
to  Dorchester  County. 

"  Tis  all  shifting  and  confounded!"  he  complained  shortly  afterwards, 
when  he  and  Bertrand  had  retreated  from  the  weather  to  a  tiny  shelter- 
cabin  behind  the  mast.  He  was  thinking  not  only  of  Burlingame  and 
the  surprising  transvaluation  of  Lord  Baltimore  and  Coode  which  his  former 
tutor  had  argued  so  persuasively  that  morning  (and  which,  after  Bertrand' s 
announcement,  seemed  most  self-incriminating),  but  for  that  matter  Ber- 
trand, John  McEvoy,  and  virtually  everyone  else.  "No  man  is  what  or 
whom  I  take  him  for!" 

"There's  much  goes  on,"  the  valet  nodded  darkly,  "that  folk  like  thee 
and  me  know  naught  of.  Things  are  de'il  the  bit  what  they  seem." 

"Why,  i'Christ "  Ebenezer  gave  himself  over  to  exasperated  con- 
jecture. "How  do  I  know  'tis  Burlingame  I've  traveled  with  in  the  first 
place,,  when  he  alters  everything  from  face  to  philosophy  every  time  I  re- 
encounter  him?  Haply  Burlingame  died  six  years  ago,  or  is  Baltimore's  pris- 
oner, or  Coode's,  and  all  these  others  are  mere  impostors!" 

"Tis  not  impossible,"  Bertrand  admitted. 

"And  this  war  to  the  death  'twixt  Baltimore  and  Coode!"  Ebenezer 
laughed  sharply.  "How  do  we  know  who's  right  and  who's  wrong,  or 
whether  'tis  a  war  at  all?  What's  to  keep  me  from  declaring  they're  in 
collusion,  and  all  this  show  of  insurrection's  but  a  cloak  to  hide  some  dread- 
ful partnership?" 

"  'Twould  not  surprise  me  in  the  least,  if  ye  want  to  know.  I've  never 
trusted  that  Jacobite  Baltimore,  any  more  than  I've  trusted  Mr.  Burlingame, 
from  the  first." 

"Jacobite,  you  say?  'Sheart,  what  an  innocent  rustic  thou'rt  become! 
Think  you  King  William's  not  secretly  as  much  in  league  with  James  as  he  is 
with  Louis  and  the  Pope  o'  Rome?  Is't  not  a  well-known  fact  that  More 
history's  made  by  secret  handshakes  than  by  all  the  parliaments  in  the 
world?" 

"There's  much  would  surprise  an  honest  man,  if  he  just  but  knew't," 
the  valet  murmured,  but  he  shifted  uneasily  and  stared  out  at  the  lowering 
sky. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  545  ] 

"1'faith,  thou'rt  a  greater  sage  than  Socrates,  fellow!  These  sayings  of 
yours  should  be  writ  in  gold  leaf  on  the  entablatures  of  public  buildings, 
lest  any  wight  forget!  What  is't  but  childish  innocence  keeps  the  mass  o' 
men  persuaded  that  the  church  is  not  supported  by  the  brothel,  or  that 
God  and  Satan  do  not  hold  hands  in  the  selfsame  cookie-jar?" 

"Ah,  now,  sir,  ye  go  too  far!"  Bertrand's  tone  was  hushed.  "Some  things 
ye  know  as  clear  as  ye  know  your  name." 

Ebenezer  laughed  again,  in  the  manner  of  one  possessed  by  fever.  "Then 
you  really  believe  'tis  Eben  Cooke  thou'rt  speaking  to?  How  is't  you  never 
guessed  I  was  John  Coode?" 

"Nay,  sir,  go  to!"  the  servant  pleaded.  "Thou'rt  undone  by  thy  misfor- 
tunes and  know  not  what  ye  speak!  Prithee  go  to!" 

But  the  poet  only  leered  the  more  menacingly.  "You  may  fool  others 
by  playing  some  looby  of  a  servingman,  but  not  John  Coode!  I  know  thou'rt 
Ebenezer  Cooke,  and  you'll  not  escape  murthering  this  time!" 

"I'll  tell  the  captain  to  fetch  us  back  to  St.  Mary's  City  at  once,  sir," 
Bertrand  whined,  "and  summon  a  good  physician  to  bleed  ye.  'Tis  late  in 
the  day  for  a  crossing  anyhow,  and  marry,  look  yonder  at  the  whitecaps 
on  the  Bay!  Rest  and  sleep— rest  and  sleep'll  make  ye  a  new  man  by  to- 
morrow, take  my  word  for't.  Only  look  astern,  sir:  there's  a  proper  hurricane 
blowing  up!  I'll  speak  to  the  captain " 

"Nay,  man,  come  back;  I'll  tease  no  more/'  He  closed  his  eyes  and  rubbed 

them  with  thumb  and  forefinger.  "  Twas  just Ah  well,  I  had  a  picture 

in  my  mind,  that  I'd  forgot  till  now,  and  I  thought "  He  paused  to 

pinch  himself  unmercifully  on  the  forearm,  grunted  at  the  pain  of  it,  and 
sighed. 

"Please,  sir,  'tis  a  frightful  storm  coming  yonder!  This  wretched  toy  will 
go  down  like  stone!" 

"And  you  think  we're  really  here,  then,  and  can  drown?  This  thing  I 
spoke  of,  that  had  just  jumped  back  to  mind— 'twas  back  in  Pudding  Lane 
last  March— marry,  it  seems  five  years  ago!  I  had  been  offered  a  sort  of 
wager  with  Ben  Oliver,  an  obscene  business,  and  had  fled  to  my  room  fox 
very  mortification " 

"  'Sheart,  feel  how  she  rolls  and  pitches,  sir,  now  we're  clear  o'  land!" 

The  poet  ignored  his  man's  terror,  "When  I  was  alone  again  in  my  room, 

I  had  a  perfect  fit  of  shame;  I  longed  to  go  back  and  play  the  man  with 

Joan  Toast  in  the  winehouse,  but  I'd  not  the  courage  for't,  and  in  the 

midst  of  my  brooding  I  fell  asleep  there  at  my  writing  table." 

The  roll  of  the  boat  threw  Bertrand  to  his  knees;  his  face  went  white. 


[  546  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"  Tis  all  very  well,  sir,  all  very  well  indeed;  but  I  must  shout  to  the 
captain  to  turn  back!  We  can  fetch  Miss  Anna  another  time,  when  the 
weather's  clear!" 

Ebenezer  declared  they  would  fetch  her  now,  and  went  on  with  his 
reminiscence.  "The  thing  I  just  recalled/'  he  said,  "was  how  Joan  Toast 
waked  me  by  knocking  on  my  door,  and  how  I  was  so  amazed  to  see 
her,  and  still  so  full  of  sleep,  I  could  not  tell  to  save  my  life  whether  'twas 
a  dream  or  not.  And  I  remember  reasoning  clearly  'twas  doubtless  a  cruel 
dream,  for  naught  so  wondrous  e'er  occurred  in  natural  life.  All  my  joys 
and  tribulations  commenced  with  that  knock  on  the  door,  and  so  fantastical 
are  they,  I  wonder  if  I  am  not  still  in  Pudding  Lane,  still  wrapped  in 
troubled  sleep,  and  all  this  parlous  history  but  a  dream/' 

'Would  Heav'n  it  were,  sir!"  cried  the  valet.  "Hear  that  wind,  i'Christ, 
and  the  sky  already  dark!" 

"I  have  had  dreams  that  seemed  more  real,"  Ebenezer  said,  "and  so  hath 
Anna,  many's  the  time.  There  was  a  trick  we  knew  as  children:  when  the 
lions  of  Numidia  were  upon  us  or  we'd  fallen  from  some  great  Carpathian 
cliff,  we'd  say,  Tis  but  a  dream,  and  noiv  Til  wake;  'tis  but  a  dream,  and 
now  Til  wake— and  sure  enough,  we'd  wake  in  our  beds  in  St.  Giles  in  the 
Fields!  Why,  we  were  even  wont  to  wonder,  when  we  talked  at  night 
betwixt  our  two  bedchambers,  whether  all  of  life  and  the  world  were  not 
just  such  a  dream;  many  and  many's  the  time  we  came  nigh  to  trying  our 
magical  chant  upon't,  and  thought  we'd  wake  to  a  world  where  no  people 
were,  nor  Earth  and  Sun,  but  only  disembodied  spirits  in  the  void."  He 
sighed.  "But  we  ne'er  durst  try " 

"Try't  now,  sir/'  Bertrand  pleaded,  "ere  we're  drowned  past  saying 
charms!  I'God,  sir,  try't  now!" 

The  poet  laughed,  no  longer  feverishly.  "'Twould  do  you  no  good  in 
any  case,  Bertrand.  The  reason  we  never  tried  it  was  that  we  knew  only 
one  of  us  could  be  The  Dreamer  of  the  WorZd— that  was  our  name  for't 
—and  we  feared  that  if  it  worked,  and  one  of  us  awoke  to  a  strange  new 
cosmos,  he'd  discover  he  had  no  twin  save  in  his  dream.  .  .  .  'Twas  too 
much  to  risk.  What  would  it  profit  you  if  I  saved  myself  and  left  you  here 
to  drown?" 

But  Bertrand  was  too  frightened  to  follow  his  master's  reasoning:  he  fell 
to  pinching  himself  ferociously  and  bawling  "  'Tis  but  a  dream,  and  now 
Til  -wake!  'Tis  but  a  dream,  and  now  I'll  wakel"— to  no  avail. 

If  his  concern  for  Ebenezer's  sanity  had  been  unwarranted,  his  fear  for 
the  safety  of  the  boat  was  more  than  justified.  The  sudden  half-gale  that 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  547  ] 

had  blown  up  from  the  southwest  was  piling  up  seas  in  the  open  water 
of  the  Chesapeake  as  formidable  as  any  the  poet  had  ever  seen  before,  except 
during  the  storm  off  Corvo  in  the  Azores,  and  instead  of  the  Poseidon's 
two  hundred  tons  and  two  dozen  crewmen,  his  life  was  riding  this  time 
in  a  gaff-rigged  sloop-  not  forty  feet  long,  manned  by  one  white  man 
and  a  pair  of  husky  Negroes.  Already  the  light  was  failing,  though  it  could 
be  no  later  than  five  in  the  afternoon;  the  prospect  of  sailing  through 
some  fifty  miles  of  those  seas  in  total  darkness  seemed  truly  suicidal,  and 
at  length,  despite  the  urgency  of  his  desire  to  find  Anna,  he  asked  the 
Captain— a  grizzled  old  gentleman  by  the  name  of  Cairn— whether  they 
had  not  better  return  to  St.  Mary's. 

"  Tis  what  I've  been  trying  to  do  this  past  half  hour,"  the  Captain  re- 
plied sourly,  and  explained  that  even  with  his  jib  and  topsail  struck  and 
his  mainsail  triple-reefed,  he  had  been  unable  to  sail  close-hauled  back  into 
the  Potomac,  which  lay  to  windward;  so  strong  were  the  frequent  gusts 
that  the  minimum  amount  of  sail  required  for  tacking  was  enough  to  dis- 
mast or  capsize  the  sloop.  The  only  alternative  had  been-  to  drop  anchor, 
and  even  this,  according  to  the  Captain,  was  but  a  temporary  expedient: 
had  the  bottom  been  good  holding  ground,  the  anchor  pendant  would 
have  parted  at  the  first  gust;  as  it  was  they  were  dragging  to  leeward  at  a 
great  rate  and  would  soon  be  beyond  the  depth  of  the  pendant  entirely. 

"Yonder  there's  Point  Lookout,"  he  said,  indicating  an  obscure  and  re- 
treating point  of  land  in  the  very  eye  of  the  wind.  "  Tis  the  last  land  ye'll 
see  this  day,  if  not  forever/' 

Ebenezer  felt  cold  fear.  "  'Sbody!  D'you  mean  'tis  over  and  done  with 
us?" 

Captain  Cairn  cocked  his  head  to  indicate  the  possibility.  "We'll  heave 
to  and  rig  a  sea  anchor;  after  that  'tis  God's  affair,  not  mine." 

Thus  delivered  of  his  sentiments,  he  and  the  Negroes  bent  a  little  try- 
sail onto  the  mainmast  to  keep  the  bow  to  windward  and  replaced  the 
useless  iron  grapple  with  a  canvas  sea  anchor,  which,  so  long  as  the  tide 
was  ebbing  towards  the  ocean,  would  retard  the  vessel's  northeastern  lee- 
way. There  was  nothing  else  to  be  done:  when  the  work  was  finished 
the  Captain  lashed  the  tiller  and  took  shelter  with  his  passengers  in  the 
cabin,  which,  unfortunately  for  the  crew,  had  room  enough  for  just  three 
people  inside.  Point  Lookout  very  soon  vanished,  and  as  if  its  disappearance 
had  been  a  signal,  darkness  closed  in  immediately  afterwards,  and  the  wind 
and  rain  seemed  to  increase  their  intensity.  The  sloop  was  flung  high 
by  each  furious  black  sea  and  fell  with  a  jarring  slap  into  the  trough 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

behind;  the  sea  anchor,  though  of  value  in  preventing  the  boat  from  broach- 
ing to,  caused  her  to  nose  rather  deeply  and  ship  a  quantity  of  water  at 
the  bow,  which  the  Negroes  were  obliged  to  bail  out  with  a  crude  wooden 
bilge  pump. 

"Poor  devils!"  Ebenezer  sympathized.  "Should  we  not  spell  them  at  the 
pumps  and  give  them  some  respite  in  the  cabin?" 

"No  need,"  the  Captain  replied.  "Three  hours  shall  see  the  end  oft,  one 
way  or  another,  and  'twill  keep  'em  from  freezing  in  the  meantime."  What 
he  meant,  the  poet  learned  on  further  interrogating  him,  was  that  if  the 
storm  did  not  .blow  itself  out,  change  its  direction,  or  sink  them,  the  pres- 
ent rate  and  course  of  their  leeway  would  carry  them  across  the  Bay  in 
three  hours  or  so  and  bring  them  stern-foremost  to  the  Eastern  Shore. 

"Then  marry  come  up,  we've  hope  after  all,  have  we  not?"  Even  Ber- 
trand,  who  had  been  chattering  with  cold  and  fright,  displayed  some  cheer 
at  this  announcement. 

"YeVe  hope  o7  drowning  near  shore,  at  least,"  the  Captain  said.  "The 
surf  will  swamp  -her  in  a  trice  and  haply  break  her  up  as  well." 

The  valet  moaned  afresh,  and  Ebenezer's  cheeks  and  forehead  tingled. 
Yet  though  the  prospect  of  drowning  horrified  him  no  less  now  than  it 
had  when  he  walked  the  pirates'  plank  off  Cedar  Point,  about  a  dozen 
miles  northwest  of  their  present  position,  the  prospect  of  death  itself,  he 
noted  with  some  awe,  held  no  more  terrors.  On  the  contrary:  while  he 
would  not  have  chosen  to  die,  especially  when  Anna's  welfare  was  so  un- 
certain, the  thought  of  no  longer  having  to  deal  with  the  lost  estate,,  his 
father's  wrath,  and  the  sundry  revelations  and  characters  of  Henry  Burlin- 
game,  for  example,  was  infinitely  sweet.  Delicious  Death!  Not  in  broodiest 
night  hours  of  his  growth,  when  in  anguish  or  fascination  he  would  cease  to 
breathe,  hold  still  his  brain,  and  hear  the  blood  rumble  in  his  ears  while  he 
strove  dizzily  and  in  vain  to  suspend  the  beating  of  his  heart — not  even 
then  had  cool  Oblivion  seemed  more  balmy. 

Except  to  grunt  at  occasional  extraordinary  crashes  of  water  or  lurches 
of  the  boat,  no  one  was  much  inclined  during  the  period  that  followed 
to  speak  aloud  to  anyone  else.  The  storm,  though  uneven  in  its  violence, 
showed  no  signs  of  abating,  and  could  at  any  moment,  by  how  many  pos- 
sible combinations  of  wind  and  wave  no  man  could  say,  have  swamped 
or  capsized  them  without  warning  in  a  sea  too  cold  and  rough  for  the 
ablest  swimmer  to  survive  more  than  twenty  minutes.  Yet  thanks  to  the 
sea  anchor,  the  indefatigable  Negroes  at  the  pump,  and  an  apparent 
general  seaworthiness  about  the  hull,  not  to  mention  blind  Providence,  the 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  $49  J 

vessel  remained  hove  to  and  afloat  through  gust  after  gust,  sea  after  sea— 
and  slipped  steadily,  if  not  apparently,  to  leeward  all  the  while.  After  a 
time— which  to  Ebenezer  could  as  reasonably  have  been  twenty  as  two 
hours— the  Captain  left  off  stroking  his  beard  and  raised  his  head  atten- 
tively. Both  Ebenezer  and  Bertrand  gave  a  start,  and  the  poet  inquired 
anxiously  what  was  the  matter. 

"Hark!"  The  Captain  raised  a  hand  for  silence.  "D'ye  hear  that,  now?" 
Without  waiting  for  reply  he  threw  open  the  door,  stepped  out  onto 
the  deck,  and,  at  the  risk  of  swamping,  ordered  the  Negroes  to  suspend 
for  a  moment  both  their  pumping  and  the  rhythmical  chantey  with  which 
they  paced  and  lightened  their  labor.  Ebenezer  strained  his  ears,  but  though 
the  open  door  amplified  the  noises  of  the  storm  and  admitted  no  smalt 
quantity  of  rain  and  cold  air  into  the  bargain,  he  could  detect  no  novel 
sound,  nor  could  he  see  anything  at  all  in  the  utter  darkness. 

The  Captain  bade  the  crew  resume  their  pumping,  without  musical  ac- 
companiment, and  thrust  his  dripping  head  back  into  cabin. 

"There's  land  not  far  to  leeward,"  he  announced.  "Ye  can  hear  the 
surf  astern."  And  upon  repeating  his  cheerless  prophecy  of  some  hours  be- 
fore, that  one  way  or  another  their  ordeal  would  soon  be  over,  he  disap- 
peared into  the  darkness  forward. 

Then,  despite  Bertrand's  protests  that  he  would  rather  drown  where  he 
sat  than  outside  in  the  cold  and  wet,  Ebenezer  insisted  that  they  too  leave 
the  cabin,  the  better  to  swim  for  their  lives  when  the  boat  went  down 
or  broke  up  in  the  surf.  The  rainfall,  they  found,  had  considerably  dimin- 
ished, so  that  the  entire  length  of  the  boat  was  visible;  but  the  wind  howled 
as  fiercely  as  ever,  blowing  the  tops  from  the  huge  black  seas  that  crashed 
and  shuddered  about  the  hull.  And  now  their  new  peril  was  identified, 
Ebenezer  could  hear  it  too— the  more  profound  and  rhythmical  thunder- 
ing of  invisible  breakers  to  leeward. 

Up  toward  the  Captain  cut  loose  the  sea  anchor,  whose  efficacy  had 
been  steadily  diminishing  with  the  run  of  the  tide,  and  cast  the  grapple 
in  its  place— not  with  any  serious  hope  of  its  holding  fast  on  the  rockless 
bottom  of  the  marsh  country,  into  which  general  area  he  reckoned  them 
to  have  drifted,  but  merely  to  hold  his  vessel's  bow  into  the  wind  and 
delay  as  long  as  possible  her  reaching  the  breakers.  Then  he  joined  his 
passengers  aft  and,  stroking  his  beard  afresh,  listened  with  them  to  the 
ominous  rumble  astern. 

"Why  can't  we  simply  let  go  the  anchor  and  ride  the  waves  ashore?"  the 


[  550  1  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

poet  inquired.  "It  seems  to  me  I've  read  of  such  a  practice,  amongst  some 
fisherfolk  or  other." 

The  Captain  shook  his  head.  "If  'twere  a  double-ender  I  might  try 
it,  though  e'en  so  ye'd  have  the  devil's  own  time  coming  about.  But  your 
square  stern  yaws  in  a  following  sea,  don't  ye  know,  and  wants  the  proper 
lift  as  well:  the  first  good  sea  would  either  broach  ye  to  or  poop  ye."  He 
did  not  trouble  himself  to  define  the  latter  catastrophe,  but  advised  all 
hands  to  divest  themselves  of  boots,  coats,  wigs,  and  waistcoats,  against  the 
desperate  swim  ahead,  and  to  take  positions  more  or  less  amidships. 

"Not  I,"  the  valet  objected.  "Tis  ten  yards  the  less  to  swim  if  I  jump 
here  astern/' 

The  Captain  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  replied,  "Stay  there,  then, 
and  be  damned  t'ye:  we  can  use  your  weight  to  keep  her  trim.  But  I'll 
not  answer  for't  if  the  whole  ship  breaks  on  your  idle  skull!" 

Seeing  the  flaw  in  his  reasoning,  Bertrand  grew  so  ready  in  the  captain's 
service  that,  not  content  to  stop  amidships,  he  moved  on  the  extreme 
bow  of  the  sloop  and  might  even  have  attempted  the  sprit  had  not  one 
of  the  Negroes  added  the  complementary  caution,  perhaps  as  a  tease,  that 
too  much  weight  forward  would  put  the  vessel  down  at  the  head  and 
jeopardize  her  rising  to  the  seas,  already  hampered  by  the  drag  of  the 
grapple  and  pendant. 

"Stay,  listen!"  the  Captain  interrupted.  "D'ye  hear?" 

Again  they  strained  their  ears.  "Naught  but  the  storm  and  yonder  surf, 
as  before,"  Ebenezer  said. 

"Aye,  but  not  astern  now;  'tis  off  the  larboard  quarter!"  Facing  aft,  he 
pointed  about  forty-five  degrees  to  the  right,  to  which  invisible  location, 
sure  enough,  the  sound  of  breakers  had  moved,  although  they  were  ap- 
parently much  nearer  than  before. 

"What  doth  it  mean?"  Ebenezer  demanded,  uncertain  whether  to  feel 
more  or  less  anxiety  than  he  felt  already.  "Hath  the  wind  shifted?" 

"Not  a  point,"  said  the  Captain.  "  'Tis  sou'-sou'west,  and  should  have 
brought  us  Hooper's  Island  square  astern.  Haply  'tis  just  some  cove  or 

bend  o'  the  shoreline "  He  broke  off  his  musing  to  send  one  of  the 

Negroes  aft,  to  listen  for  surf  to  starboard  or  astern.  But  only  to  eastwards 
could  they  hear  it,  and  then  east-southeastwards,  and  then  dead  southeast- 
wards,  as  it  moved  from  the  quarter  to  the  larboard  beam;  and  though  at 
first  its  apparent  proximity  had  increased  at  a  fearful  rate  until  it  seemed 
that  the  breakers  must  spill  them  at  any  moment,  now  that  the  sound  was 
abreast  of  them  it  grew  no  louder,  while  astern  the  storm  raged  on  as  it 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  551  ] 

had  in  the  middle  of  the  Bay.  Clearly,  whatever  land  that  surf  broke  on 
they  were  leaving  to  larboard. 

"  'Twas  the  run  o'  the  tide  in  the  sea  anchor/'  Captain  Cairn  declared 
thoughtfully.  "It  hath  dragged  us  something  eastwards  of  our  sternway— 
which  is  to  say,  something  south  of  Hooper's  Island.  My  guess  is,  'tis  Limbo 
Straits  we're  in,  and  yonder  surf  is  a  marsh  called  Bloodsworth  Island.  If  it 

is  in  sooth I'Christ,  now,  let  me  think!"  He  tugged  ferociously  at  his 

beard,  while  Ebenezer  and  Bertrand  watched  with  awe.  "No  surf  astern 
yet,  or  to  starboard?"  he  demanded  again  of  the  Negroes,  and  was  answered 
in  the  negative.  The  breakers  to  larboard  were  still  moving  slowly  forward; 
now  the  sound  reached  them  from  due  south— about  four  points  off  the 
larboard  bow— and  had  diminished  somewhat  in  volume,  as  had  the  seas 
in  height. 

"Is't  our  ruin  or  our  salvation?"  asked  the  poet,  at  the  same  time 
endeavoring  to  remember  where  it  was  that  he  had  previously  encountered 
the  name  Limbo  Straits. 

"It  could  be  either,"  said  the  Captain.  "If  that  be  Bloodsworth  Island 
yonder,  why,  there  is  a  cove  in  the  top  oft  called  Okahanikan,  just  abeam, 
where  we  might  run  for  shelter;  or  we  can  drift  through  Limbo  Straits  and 
take  our  chances  with  the  surf  on  the  Dorset  mainland.  Ye  can  see  the 
waves  are  something  smaller  now  we're  past  that  point  o7  land:  if  yonder's 
Okahanikan  and  we  leave't  to  windward,  ye'll  soon  see  'em  large  again  as 
e'er  they  were  before  .  .  ," 

"Then  prithee  let  us  run  for't!"  Bertrand  begged. 

"On  the  other  hand,"  the  Captain  concluded,  with  a  great  tug  of  the 
whiskers,  "if  we  run  for't  and  it  isn't  Okahanikan,  or  we  miss  the  deepest 
part  oft,  we're  as  good  as  run  aground  and  swamped." 

"I  say  let's  try  it,"  Ebenezer  urged.  "As  well  risk  drowning  as  freeze  for 
certain."  Indeed,  stripped  of  his  boots  and  outer  garments,  he  had  never 
been  so  cold  in  all  his  life:  despite  the  storm  it  was,  luckily,  no  more  than  a 
moderately  cold  night  for  late  December,  even  at  the  thirty-eighth  parallel 
of  north  latitude,  twelve  minutes  above  which  lay  the  mouth  of  Okahanikan 
Cove;  even  so,  the  air  was  cool,  and  the  wind  and  rain  compounded  his 
discomfort.  His  great  jaw  chattered;  he  hugged  himself  and  pumped  his 
legs  as  best  he  could  on  the  pitching  deck;  his  heart  felt  about  to  wither 
inside  its  lengthy  cage  of  ribs.  He  recalled  an  observation  made  long  winters 
before  by  Burlingame:  once  when  the  twins  had  marveled  at  a  tale  of  the 
ferocious  tropical  heat  endured  by  Magellan  or  some  other  intrepid  voyager 
of  the  horse  latitudes,  their  tutor  had  observed  that,  given  a  covering  of 


[  55^  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

clothes  and  ample  water,  the  severest  heat  is  simply  more  or  less  uncomfort- 
able and  can  always  be  dealt  with,  but  cold,  on  the  other  hand,  is  in  its 
essence  sinister  and  inimical  to  life.  If  the  image  of  equatorial  climate  is 
ringed  with  connotations  of  sweltering,  oppressive  heat,  at  its  center  lies 
those  swarming,  steaming  beds  of  procreation,  the  great  rain  forests;  but 
to  think  of  what  lies  above  the  Arctic  Circle  is  to  think  of  Chaos,  oblivion, 
the  antithesis  of  life.  Even  thus  (so  Burlingame  had  declared  to  his 
attentive  charges)  do  men  speak  of  the  heat  of  passions,  and  refer  to  various 
sentiments  and  social  relationships  approvingly  as  ivcrrm,  forasmuch  as  the 
metabolism  of  life  itself  is  warm;  but  fear,  contempt,  despair,  and  deepest 
hatred— not  to  mention  facts,  logic,  analysis,  and  extreme  formality  of  dress 
or  manner— however  involved  they  may  be  in  the  human  experience  of 
living,  and  inseparable  from  it,  have  forever  in  the  nostrils  of  the  race  some 
effluvium  of  the  grave  and  are  described  in  mankind's  languages  by 
adjectives  of  cold.  In  sum  (Ebenezer  remembered  dear  Henry  concluding 
with  a  smile  and  raking  up  the  fire  in  his  converted  summer-house  with  the 
ramrod  of  a  Spanish  musket  on  the  wall),  hot  days  may  well  elicit  sweat 
and  curses,  but  chill  winds  cut  through  tie  greatcoats  and  farthingales  of 
time,  knife  to  the  primal  memory  of  the  species,  shiver  that  slumbering 
animal  in  the  caves  of  our  soul,  and  whisper  "Danger!"  in  his  hairy  ear. 
Nor  was  Bertrand  any  wanner:  if  he  had  objections  to  his  master's 
proposal,  his  teeth  were  chattering  too  busily  to  voice  them.  There  was  no 
time  for  debate;  the  surf  now  was  a  muffled  thunder  well  forward.  The 
Captain  ordered  the  triple-reefed  jib  and  mainsail  up  and  took  the  helm 
himself.  The  Negroes  having  their  hands  full  with  sheets  and  gaff-halyards, 
he  stationed  both  passengers  forward,  Bertrand  to  take  soundings  with  a 
long  pole  (the  sloop  itself,  chine-bottomed,  drew  less  than  three  feet  of 
water,  and  the  keel  only  two  or  three  more)  and  Ebenezer  to  watch  and 
listen  for  trouble  ahead.  The  luff  of  the  sails  cracked  like  pistol-fire  in  the 
wind*  and  the  heavy  boom  whipped  back  and  forth  over  the  deck.  When 
the  anchor  pendant  had  been  shortened  until  the  grapple  barely  held  the 
bow  to  windward,  the  Captain  put  the  helm  up  hard  and  close-hauled  the 
jib:  the  bow  fell  off  at  onpe  to  larboard,  both  sails  filled  with  a  snap  that 
heeled  the  sloop  far  over  and  bid  fair  to  take  out  her  mast,  and  the  anchor 
was  desperately  weighed.  For  a  moment  the  fearful  forces  hung  in  balance: 
surely,  Ebenezer  thought,  the  ship  must  capsize  or  broach  to,  or  the  mast 
let  go,  or  the  shrouds,  or  the  chain  plates,  or  the  sails.  But  as  the  next  great 
wave  rolled  under,  the  Captain  eased  the  helm;  the  bow  pointed  just  a 
shade  nearer  the  wind's  eye,  and  to  the  accompaniment  of  cheers  from  the 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  553  ] 

Negro  crew,  the  sloop  righted  herself  to  a  reasonable  angle  of  heel,  took 
the  next  crest  fairly  at  forty-five  degrees,  and  gained  steerageway  due  south- 
wards on  a  sluggish  starboard  tack. 

Almost  at  once  they  found  themselves  in  comparatively  calm  water, 
though  the  wind  howled  as  furiously  as  ever;  clearly  they  were  in  the  lee  of 
whatever  land  they'd  raised,  and  while  their  troubles  were  by  no  means  over, 
they  were  temporarily  relieved  of  the  danger  of  losing  their  ship  from  under 
them.  Moreover,  with  the  island,  or  whatever,  to  break  the  wind,  they  were 
able  to  proceed  with  greater  caution  and  control:  almost  at  once,  on  their 
southerly  bearing,  Bertrand  touched  bottom  with  his  pole  and  bawled  the 
news  aft— indeed,  the  sound  of  the  wind  in  reeds  and  trees  could  be  plainly 
heard  in  the  darkness  dead  ahead.  The  Negroes  at  once  slacked  off  the 
sheets,  and  the  sloop  was  brought  over  on  a  broad  reach  paralleling  the 
apparent  shoreline,  with  just  enough  way  to  steer  by.  For  ten  minutes  the 
soundings  remained  constant,  at  between  nine  and  ten  feet  of  water,  and 
the  trees  howled  steadily  off  the  starboard  beam.  Then  this  land-sound  be- 
came more  general—seemed,  in  fact,  almost  to  enclose  them  everywhere 
but  astern— and  at  the  first  brush  of  the  keel  against  the  bottom,  heard  and 
felt  by  none  besides  Captain  Cairn,  he  ordered  the  anchor  dropped  and 
came  up  into  the  wind. 

"Dear  Heav'n!"  Ebenezer  cried.  "Can  it  be  we're  safe?" 

"Only  the  mttol  can  know  he  is  no  cuckold,"  said  the  Captain,  repeating 
a  proverb  Ebenezer  had  heard  before,  "and  only  a  dead  man  is  safe  from 
death."  Nevertheless  he  stroked  his  beard  with  obvious  relief  and  admitted 
that,  barring  a  shift  in  the  direction  of  the  wind,  there  seemed  to  be  no 
reason  why  they  could  not  ride  out  the  night  at  anchor:  the  grapple  was 
holding  fast  in  the  calmer  waters;  pole-soundings  made  while  the  crew 
furled  the  sails  showed  eight  or  nine  feet  everywhere  along  the  hull,  and 
more  could  be  expected  as  the  tide  ran  in. 

"  Tis  some  manner  of  cove,  right  enough,"  he  declared  when  the  vessel 
was  properly  secured,  "else  we'd  hear  more  sea  astern,  instead  of  trees. 
Whether  Okahanikan  or  some  other  we'll  learn  anon." 

There  being,  incredibly  to  Ebenezer,  nothing  further  to  do  until  day- 
break, all  hands  put  on  the  clothes  they  had  discarded  some  time  before 
and  made  shift  to  warm  and  rest  themselves.  The  chore  of  standing  watch 
for  changes  in  the  weather  or  other  perils  was  assigned  to  the  exhausted 
crew  until  Ebenezer  protested  that  the  Negroes  had  already  labored 
valiantly  and  prodigiously  the  whole  night  through,  with  not  a  moment's 


[  554  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

rest  or  shelter  from  the  storm,  and  volunteered  to  give  up  his  place  in  the 
cabin  to  them  and  stand  watch  with  Bertrand  in  their  stead. 

"Ye  may  do  as  ye  please/'  the  Captain  replied,  but  with  a  shrug  that 
implied  doubts  as  to  his  passengers'  good  sense.  "Keep  a  lookout  lest  we 
drag  our  anchor,  and  take  soundings  astern  if  we  swing  with  the  tide.  For 
the  rest,  don't  wake  me  unless  the  wind  comes  round  and  blows  into  the 
cove." 

Having  made  these  injunctions,  he  retired,  but  the  Negroes,  despite 
Ebenezer's  invitation,  made  no  move  to  follow  after.  They  had  followed 
the  conversation  as  impassively  as  if  they  understood  not  a  word  of  it,  and 
indeed,  judging  from  their  reticence,  their  difficulties  with  the  English 
language,  and  the  primitive,  half-embarrassed  bashfulness— manifested  by 
averted  smiles,  great  rolls  of  the  eyes,  and  much  shifting  of  their  feet—with 
which  they  declined  his  offer  of  shelter,  the  poet  concluded  that  despite 
their  dextrous  seamanship  they  were  not  long  out  of  the  African  jungles. 
This  impression  was  doubly  strengthened  not  long  after,  when,  giving  over 
his  endeavors  in  their  behalf,  he  commenced  his  watch  with  Bertrand:  the 
two  Negroes  spread  out  on  the  deck  between  them  a  spare  jibsail,  folded 
once  leech  to  luff,  and  commencing  one  at  the  head  and  one  at  the  foot 
rolled  themselves  up  in  it  against  the  weather.  The  very  adroitness  with 
which  they  performed  this  feat  gave  it  an  air  of  outlandish  ritual,  and  when 
it  was  done  and  they  lay  face  to  if  ace  as  snug  and  immobile  as  scroll-pins, 
they  entertained  themselves  for  a  time  with  a  chuckling,  husky-whispered 
colloquy  in  some  exotic  tongue— totally  unintelligible  to  the  Englishmen 
save  for  the  often-repeated  name  of  their  supposed  anchorage,  Okahanikan, 
and  another  recurrent  word  which  (though  Ebenezer  was  not  so  certain 
on  this  head)  Bertrand  declared  with  much  emotion  to  be  Drakepecker: 
the  name,  approximately,  of  his  long-lost  votary.  So  moved  was  he  by  this 
conviction,  in  fact,  that  he  expressed  his  determination  to  inquire  at  once 
of  the  Negroes  whether  they  knew  any  more  than  he  of  Drakepecker's 
welfare  and  whereabouts  and  was  restrained  only  by  Ebenezer's  reminder 
that  their  fellow  castaway  had  been  clearly  a  fugitive  of  some  sort,  the  less 
$aid  about  whom,  the  better  for  his  safety.  There  were,  after  all,  certain 
treacherous  slaves  and  indentured  servants  given  to  making  an  occasional 
half  pound  by  informing  on  their  runaway  colleagues— who  could  say  with 
certainty  that  neither  of  the  crewmen  was  such  an  informer,  particularly  in 
a  province  where  the  most  popular  diversion  of  high  and  low  alike  was 
intrigue?  The  valet  was  obliged  to  grant  the  prudence  of  this  counsel; 
reluctantly  he  took  up  his  watch  in  the  vessel's  stern,  alee  of  the  cabin, 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  J5J  ] 

where  Ebenezer,  on  his  first  circuit  of  the  deck,  a  quarter  hour  later,  found 
him  wrapped  in  a  bit  of  canvas  himself,  and  already  fast  asleep. 

"  'Sheart,  what  a  hawk-eyed  sentry!"  He  moved  to  rouse  the  man,  but 
checked  himself,  put  by  the  angry  impulse,  and  decided  to  stand  the  watch 
himself  so  long  as  all  went  well.  He  had,  at  the  hour  of  their  departure 
from  St.  Mary's,  little  but  contempt  and  mild  disgust  for  Bertrand,.  whose 
service  to  him  had  been  a  tiresome  succession  of  deceits,  betrayals,  negli- 
gences, and  presumptions,  nor  had  he  now,  assuredly,  any  new  cause  for 
affection;  that  he  felt  it— or  at  least  the  absence  of  its  contraries— not  only 
for  the  valet  but  also  for  Henry  Burlingame,  he  could  attribute  only  to  the 
violence  of  the  storm,  and  more  especially  to  the  purgative  ordeal  of  three 
hours'  dancing  on  the  doormat  of  extinction. 

He  strolled  forward  again.  The  rain  had  stopped  entirely,  and  though  the 
wind  held  strong  it  came  now  in  quick  gusts,  the  intervals  between  which 
were  rather  mild.  But  the  best  sign  of  all  that  the  storm  had  blown  its 
worst  was  the  break-up  of  the  lowering  blanket  of  cloud  into  a  heavy  black 
scud  that  first  opened  holes  for  the  gibbous  moon  to  breach,  then  gave 
way,  broke  ranks,,  and  fled  across  its  face  before  the  whips  of  wind  like  the 
ragtag  of  an  army  in  retreat.  For  the  first  time  since  nightfall,  Ebenezer 
could  see  beyond  the  white  sprit  of  the  sloop:  the  inconsistent  moon  dis- 
closed that  they  were  indeed  in  a  cove,  a  marshy  one  of  ample  dimension. 
The  island  into  which  it  made  was  ample  too  (so  much  so,  that  for  all  the 
poet  could  tell  it  might  as  reasonably  have  been  the  mainland),  entirely 
flat,  and,  as  best  once  could  discern  in  that  light,  entirely  marshy,  its  land- 
scape relieved  only  by  the  loblolly  pine  trees,  alive  and  black  or  dead  and 
silver,  that  rose  in  lean  clumps  here  and  there  from  the  marsh  grass.  It  was 
a  prospect  by  no  means  picturesque,  but  under  the  pale  illumination  stark, 
somber,  and  beautiful.  Ebenezer  even  thought  it  serene,  for  all  its  bending 
to  the  wild  wind,  just  as  he  felt  the  lonely  Island  of  his  spirit,  though  by  no 
means  tranquil,  to  be  peculiarly  serene  despite  the  buffet  of  past  fortune 
and— his  neck-nape  tingled  at  the  figure!— the  veritable  sea  of  difficulties 
with  which  it  was  beset. 

So  did  he  savor  this  reflection,  and  the  spiritual  peace  from  which  it  had 
originated,  that  for  a  considerable  period  he  was  oblivious  to  wind, 
weather,  and  the  passage  of  time;  had  the  tide  swung  the  ship  onto  a  sand 
bar,  or  the  wind  moved  round  the  compass,  the  change  would  have  escaped 
his  notice.  What  aroused  him,  finally,  was  a  sound  from  the  marsh  to  lar- 
board; he  started,  saw  that  the  moon  had  risen  a  great  way  into  the  sky, 
and  wondered  whether  to  rouse  the  others.  But  when  the  sound  came 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 


again  his  fears  were  allayed:  it  was  a  hooting  chirrup  as  of  doves  or  owls, 
some  creature  of  the  marsh  as  glad  as  he  to  see  the  storm  pass  over. 

"Too-hoo/"  The  call  came  a  third  time,  louder  and  more  clear,  and  "Too- 
fioo/"  came  a  clear  reply—  not  from  the  adjacent  marsh  but  from  the  deck 
immediately  at  Ebenezer's  back.  He  thrilled  with  alarm,  spun  about  to  see 
what  bird  had  perched  on  the  vessel's  rail,  and  was  seized  at  once  by  the 
two  Negro  crewmen,  who  had  noiselessly  unrolled  themselves  from  the 
jibsail.  One  pinioned  his  arms  and  held  fast  his  mouth  before  he  was  able 
to  cry  out;  the  other  held  a  sailor's  rigging-knife  against  his  throat  and 
called  out  over  the  side,  "Too-hoc/  Too-hoo/  Too-hoo/"—  whereupon,  as  if 
materialized  spontaneously  in  the  reeds,  three  canoes  slid  out  of  hidden 
waterways  nearby,  and  half  a  minute  later,  to  the  poet's  inexpressible  terror, 
a  party  of  silent  savages  was  swarming  over  the  rail  and  creeping  with  great 
stealth  towards  the  cabin. 


5:    CONFRONTATIONS  AND  ABSOLUTIONS  IN  LIMBO 


WHAT    WITH    EVERY    MILITARY    ADVANTAGE    IN    THEIR    FAVOR— ARMS, 

numbers,  and  absolute  surprise— the  strange  war  party  of  Indians  was  not 
long  in  attaining  its  immediate  objective,  which  seemed  to  be  the  capture 
of  the  sloop  with  all  hands.  Bertrand  and  the  Captain  were  laid  hold  of, 
wakened  with  spearheads  at  their  throats,  and  brought  forward,  the  former 
inarticulate  with  fright,  the  latter  bellowing  and  sputtering  with  rage— first 
at  his  captors,  then  at  Ebenezer  for  not  sounding  some  alarm,  and  finally 
and  most  violently,  when  he  grasped  the  situation,  at  the  treacherous  mem- 
bers of  his  crew. 

"I'll  see  ye  drawn  to  the  scaffold  and  quartered!"  he  declared,  but  the 
Negroes  only  smiled  and  turned  their  eyes  as  if  embarrassed  by  his  threats. 
The  leader  of  the  party  spoke  sharply  in  an  incomprehensible  tongue  to 
one  of  his  lieutenants,  who  relayed  it  in  another,  equally  strange  language 
to  the  Negro  sailors,  and  was  answered  in  the  same  manner;  during  their 
colloquy  Ebenezer  observed  that,  though  the  boarders  were  dressed  almost 
identically  in  deerskin  matchcoats  and  hats  of  beaver,  raccoon,  or  muskrat, 
nearly  half  their  number  were  not  Indians  at  all,  but  Negroes.  The  Captain 
remarked  this  odd  fact  as  well  and  began  at  once  to  rail  at  them  for  fugi- 
tives and  poltroons,  but  his  audience  gave  no  sign  of  understanding  his 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  557  ] 

wrathful  English.  Apparently  satisfied  that  there  were  no  more  passengers 
aboard  the  sloop  and  no  more  vessels  in  the  cove,  the  raiders  then  bound 
their  captives  at  wrist  and  ankle,  handed  them  bodily  over  the  rail,  and 
obliged  them  to  lie  face-down,  one  to  a  canoe,  throughout  a  brief  but 
circuitous  passage  into  the  marsh,  which,  like  the  earlier  phases  of  the  coup, 
was  executed  in  total  silence.  Presently  the  canoes  were  secured  to  a  clump 
of  wax  myrtles,  the  ropes  around  the  prisoners'  ankles  were  exchanged  for 
a  longer  one  that  tethered  them  by  the  neck  in  a  line,  and  the  party  pro- 
ceeded on  foot  down  a  path  as  meandering  as  the  waterway,  and  so  narrow 
that  even  single  file  it  was  hard  to  avoid  misstepping  into  the  muck  on 
either  side. 

"This  is  outrageous!"  Ebenezer  complained.  "I  never  dreamed  such 
things  still  happened  in  1694,  in  the  very  bosom  of  the  Province!" 

"Nor  I,"  the  Captain  replied,  from  his  post  in  the  van  of  the  prisoners. 
"Nor  e'er  heard  tell  of  an  Indian  town  on  Bloodsworth  Island.  TChrist, 
'tis  naught  but  marsh  from  stem  to  stern,  and  not  dry  ground  enough  to 
stand  on." 

"God  save  us!"  Bertrand  groaned— his  first  words  since  he'd  fallen  asleep 
some  hours  before.  "They'll  scalp  our  heads  and  burn  us  at  the  stake!" 

"Whatever  for?"  the  poet  inquired.  "We've  done  'em  no  injury,  that  I 


can  see." 


"  Tis  e'er  the  salvages'  wont,"  his  valet  insisted,  finding  his  voice  in  ear- 
nest. "YeVe  but  to  run  afoul  of  one  in  your  evening  stroll,  and  bang!  he'll 
skin  your  pate  as  ye'd  skin  a  peach!  Why,  'tis  still  the  talk  in  Vansweringen's 
how  a  wench  named  Kersley  was  set  upon  by  Indians  in  Charles  County, 
just  year  before  last:  she  was  crossing  a  field  of  sot-weed  'twixt  her  own 
house  and  her  father's,  with  the  sun  still  shining  and  a  babe  on  her  arm 
besides,  but  ere  she  reached  her  husband's  door  she  had  been  scalped, 
stuck  with  a  knife,  and  swived  from  whipple  to  whitsuntide!  And  again, 
not  far  from  Bohemia  Manor " 

"Be  still,"  the  Captain  snapped,  "ere  your  own  horrific  tales  beshit  ye." 

"Tis  all  quite  well  for  you  to  take  your  scalping  without  a  word," 
Bertrand  replied  undaunted.  "Twas  you  that  steered  us  hither  in  the  first 
place—" 

"I/  'Sblood  and  'sbody,  sir,  'tis  thy  good  fortune  the  salvage  hath  belayed 
my  two  hands,  else  I'd  have  thy  scalp  myself!" 

"Gentlemen,  gentlemen!"  Ebenezer  interposed.  "Our  case  is  grave 
enough  without  such  talk  as  this!  'Twas  I  that  hired  the  passage;  you  may 
hold  me  answerable  for  everything  if  'twill  ease  your  minds  to  do  so,  though 


[  CC8  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

it  strikes  me  we'd  do  better  to  give  over  wondering  who  got  us  into  this 
pickle  and  bend  our  minds  instead  to  ways  and  means  of  getting  out." 

"Amen,"  the  Captain  grunted. 

"Still  and  all,"  Bertrand  said  disconsolately,  "I  must  hold  Betsy  Birdsall 
to  some  account,  for  had  she  not  rescued  me  last  March  in  such  a  deuced 
clever  manner,  I'd  not  be  trussed  up  here  like  a  trout  on  a  gill  string." 

"Really!"  the  Captain  cried.  "Thou'rt  unhinged  for  very  fearl  Thou'rt 
a  babbling  Bedlamite!" 

"Stay,  prithee  stay,"  Ebenezer  pleaded.  Since  the  Captain's  first  sharp 
words  to  Bertrand,  the  poet's  brow  had  been  knitting,  and  his  admoni- 
tions were  made  distractedly.  Now  he  changed  the  subject  to  ask  the 
Captain,  "Was't  not  the  Straits  of  Limbo  we  entered  yonder  cove  from,  or 
did  I  mishear  you?" 

"That  was  my  guess,  sir,"  the  older  man  said,  "unless  the  tide  fetched 
us  down  as  low  as  Holland  or  Kedge's  Straits,  which  I  doubt." 

"But  if  .not,  the  name  of  the  strait  is  Limbo?  And  is  there  a  river  mouth 
not  far  hence,  with  an  Indian  name?" 

"A  hatchful  of  'em,"  the  Captain  replied,  not  greatly  interested,  "and 
they  all  have  salvage  names:  Honga,  Nanticoke,  Wicomico,  Manokin, 
Annamessex,  Pocomoke " 

"Wzcomico/  Aye,  Wicomico— 'tis  the  very  name  Smith  mentioned  in  his 
Historie!" 

The  Captain  muttered  something  unrecognizable  but  clearly  exasper- 
ated, and  to  avoid  being  thought  deranged  by  fear  like  his  servant,  Ebene- 
zer explained,  in  the  simplest  way  possible,  what  he  had  been  grasping  for 
since  the  first  mention  of  the  name  Limbo  Straits  and  had  recalled  only 
with  the  help  of  the  word  beshit:  that  Captain  John  Smith  of  Virginia, 
almost  ninety  years  previously,  had  discovered  those  same  straits  during  his 
voyage  of  exploration  up  the  Chesapeake;  had,  like  themselves,  encountered 
a  furious  storm  therein  and  suffered  the  additional  discomforts  of  a 
diarrhetic  company;  had  in  consequence  of  his  ordeal  bestowed  the  name 
Limbo  on  the  place;  and  finally  (through  the  unhappy  agency  of  Sir  Henry 
Burlingame,  whose  part  in  the  adventure  Ebenezer  thought  it  kinder  not 
to  mention)  had  been  made  prisoner,  with  all  his  party,  by  a  band  of 
warlike  Indians— perhaps  the  grandfathers  of  their  present  captors! 

"Ye  don't  tell  me,"  the  Captain  acknowledged,  but  his  tone  implied 
that,  however  arresting  the  anecdote,  it  perhaps  lost  something  of  its  effect 
for  being  told  outside  an  alehouse.  Neither  did  Bertrand  appear  to  be  over- 
whelmed by  the  coincidence,  for  when  to  his  single  inquiry,  "Prithee,  what 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  559  ] 

came  of  'em?"  his  master  confessed  that  he  had  not  the  slightest  idea,  the 
valet  relapsed  into  gloom. 

But  despite  the  uncertainty  of  their  position,  which  he  himself  had 
characterized  as  grave,  once  Ebenezer  had  wrested  the  Secret  Historie 
from  his  memory  he  could  not  but  marvel  at  the  parallel  between  John 
Smith's  experience  and  their  own.  Moreover,  the  existence  of  the  Historie 
itself  attested  that  Smith  and  at  least  some  of  his  party  had  escaped  or 
been  freed  by  their  captors.  If  only  the  Jesuit  Thomas  Smith  had  been 
given  a  longer  installment  of  the  Assembly  Journal  for  safekeeping! 

His  reflections  were  interrupted  at  this  point  by  their  arrival  at  the  In- 
dians' town,  a  formidable  assemblage  of  mean  little  huts  arranged  in  a  thick 
circle  upon  an  island  of  relatively  high  ground.  There  seemed  to  be  well 
over  a  hundred  in  all,  dome-shaped  affairs  of  small  logs  and  thatched  twigs; 
surrounded  as  they  were  by  the  marsh,  they  resembled  nothing  so  much  as 
a  colony  of  large  muskrat  houses,  the  more  since  their  occupants  were 
cloaked  and  capped  with  fur.  The  citizenry  appeared  to  be  sleeping:  except 
for  a  single  hidden  sentry  who  challenged  their  approach  with  a  "Too-/ioo/" 
from  his  post  in  a  nearby  brush  clump,  and  was  answered  in  kind,  the  town 
was  as  still  as  one  deserted. 

"'Tis  passing  queer,"  the  Captain  grumbled.  ''Never  saw  an  Indian 
town  without  a  pack  o'  curs  about." 

But  if  the  silence  of  the  village  was  disconcerting,  what  broke  it  a  few 
moments  later  was  nothing  less  than  extraordinary:  they  had  passed  through 
the  ring  of  dwellings  to  a  clearing  or  open  court  in  the  center  of  the  town, 
and  during  a  whispered  colloquy  between  the  leader  and  his  black  lieuten- 
ant, perhaps  as  to  the  fate  or  lodgment  of  the  prisoners,  there  came  from 
a  hut  not  far  away  a  sudden  wailing  that  raised  the  poet's  hackles.  Through 
his  fancy,  in  half  a  second,  passed  the  image  of  various  Indian  cruelties  he 
had  learned  of  from  Henry  Burlingame:  how  they  bit  the  nails  from  their 
victims'  fingers,  twisted  the  fingers  themselves  from  the  hands,  drove 
skewers  into  the  remaining  stumps,  pulled  sinews  from  the  arms,  tore  out 
the  hair  and  beard,  hung  hot  hatchets  around  the  neck,  and  poured  hot 
sand  on  scalped  heads.  Was  this  the  final  anguished  cry  of  some  earlier 
captive? 

"Marry  come  up!"  breathed  the  Captain,  and  Bertrand's  teeth  began  to 
chatter.  The  wail  changed  pitch  and  tone  and  changed  again  a  moment 
afterwards,  and  again,  and  again  after  that,  but  not  until  the  wailer  drew 
fresh  breath  and  recommenced  did  the  prisoners  grasp  the  nature  of  the 
sound. 


[  560  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Dear  God  in  Heav'n!"  Ebenezer  gasped.  "Tis  someone  singing!" 
And  monstrous  unlikelihood  though  it  was,  once  the  notion  had  be$n 
advanced  the  prisoners  recognized  the  sound  to  be  in  truth  the  voice  of  a 
singing  man— a  tenor,  to  be  exact.  This  in  itself  was  wonder  enough;  far 
more  incongruous  was  the  fact  that  his  words  (viewed  retrospectively  from 
this  understanding)  were  not  in  a  savage  tongue  at  all,  but  in  clear  King's 
English:  I  ...  saw  .  .  .  my-y  la-a-dy  weep  was  the  line  he'd  sung  and, 
having  drawn  his  breath,  continued:  And  Sor-row  proud  .  .  .  to  be  advan- 
ced so  .  .  . 

"B'm'faith,  'tis  Dowland  he  sings!  Tis  another  Englishman!" 
"So  much  the  worse  for  him,"  the  Captain  replied,  "but  no  better  for  us." 
"In  those  fair  eyes,"  the  singer  went  on,  "in  those  .  .  .  fair  eyes  .  .  " 
"I  wonder  he  hath  the  spirit  to  sing,"  Bertrand  marveled,  "or  his  jailer's 
leave." 

This  latter,  at  least,  it  would  seem  he  did  not  have  after  all,  for  in  the 
course  of  his  next  asseveration— "Where  all  perfec-tions  keep  .  .  ."—he 
broke  into  a  most  unmelodious  cursing,  the  substance  of  which  was  that  if 
the  so-and-so  salvages  couldn't  let  a  poor  condemned  so-and-so  sing  a  so- 
and-so  song  without  poking  their  pigstickers  into  his  so-and-so  B-flat,  they 
had  better  cut  his  so-and-so  throat  that  instant,  and  be  damned  to  them. 
"I  swear,"  Ebenezer  said,  "I  have  heard  that  voice  before!" 
"Haply  'tis  the  ghost  of  your  Captain  What-ye-may-call-him,"  the  Cap- 
tain suggested  sourly. 

.     "Nay,  i'God "  If  he  had  intended  to  say  more,  he  was  prevented  from 

doing  so  by  the  Indians,  who,  their  parley  finished,  gave  a  jerk  on  the 
neck-tether  and  led  the  prisoners  toward  the  very  hut  which  held  the 
disgruntled  tenor.  At  its  entrance  they  were  unstrung  from  one  another 
and  refettered  individually  as  for  the  canoe-passage;  throughout  the  opera- 
tion Ebenezer  kept  squinting  his  face  and  shaking  his  head  incredulously, 
and  when  upon  another  armed  Indian's  emerging  from  the  hut  the  tenor  at 
once  began  his  song  afresh,  the  poet  moaned  again  "I'Godl"  and  trembled 
all  over. 

Two  men  then  laid  hold  of  Bertrand,  who  stood  nearest  the  entrance  to 
the  hut,  forced  him  to  his  knees,  and  with  the  assistance  of  a  spear-point 
obliged  him  to  crawl  through  the  little  doorway,  whinnying  protests  and 
pleas  for  clemency.  The  Captain  too,  now  that  imprisonment  was  at  hand, 
let  go  a  fresh  torrent  of  threats  and  mariner's  oaths,  but  to  no  avail:  down 
upon  his  knees  he  went,  and  through  the  dark  hole  after  Bertrand. 
"I  say!"  the  original  tenant  complained,  breaking  off  his  song  at  the 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  561  ] 

ruckus.  "This  is  too  much!  What  is't  now?  'Sheart!  Did  I  hear  an  honest 
English  curse  there?  Hallo,  another!"  Ebenezer's  turn  had  come  to  scram- 
ble after.  "D'ye  mean  we've  enough  for  four-man  shove-ha'penny?  Who 
might  you  gentlemen  be,  to  come  calling  so  late  in  the  day?'' 

"A  pair  of  travelers  and  an  innocent  shipmaster/'  the  Captain  answered, 
"blown  hither  by  the  storm  and  betrayed  by  two  black  devils  of  a  crew!" 
"Ah,  there's  your  crime,"  the  other  prisoner  said.  The  hut  was  absolutely 
dark,  so  that  although  in  its  small  interior  the  Englishmen  lay  like  logs  in  a 
woodbox,  they  could  not  see  their  companions  even  faintly.  Their  jailer, 
after  receiving  instructions  from  the  Indian  leader,  remained  on  guard 
outside,  and  the  raiding  party  dispersed. 

"What  crime?"  the  Captain  protested.  "I've  ne'er  laid  an  angry  hand  on 
the  rascals  since  the  day  I  bought  'em!" 

"'Tis  enough  ye  bought  'em,"  replied  the  tenor.  "More  than  enough.  I 
ne'er  bought  or  sold  a  black  man  in  my  life,  nor  harmed  a  red— how  could 
I,  i'faith,  that's  but  a  runaway  redemptioner  myself? — but  t'was  enough  I 
matched  the  color  of  them  that  did." 

"What  is  this  talk  of  slaves  and  colors?"  Bertrand  demanded.  "D'ye  mean 
they'll  scalp  poor  hapless  servingmen  like  myself?" 
"Worse,  friend." 

"Worse!  What  could  be  worse?"  the  valet  shrieked. 
"By'r  voice  I'd  judge  ye  sing  a  faltering  bass,"  the  other  declared.  "But  if 
they  do  the  little  trick  they've  set  their  minds  to,  we'll  all  be  warbling 
descants  within  the  week." 

Of  the  three  new  prisoners  only  Ebenezer  grasped  the  meaning  of  this 
prediction;  yet  though  truly  horrified  by  it,  he  was  too  disconcerted,  even 
confounded,  by  his  prior  astonishment  to  interpret  the  figures  for  his 
companions.  Their  host,  however,  the  invisible  tenor,  did  so  at  once  in 
plainest  literal  English,  to  the  extreme  consternation  of  Bertrand  and  the 
Captain. 

"I've  not  been  in  this  wretched  province  many  months,"  said  he,  "but  I 
know  well  the  Governor  hath  enemies  on  every  side— Jacobites  and  John 
Coode  Protestants  within,  Andros  to  the  south,  and  the  Frenchman  to  the 
north— so  that  he  lives  in  daily  fear  of  insurrection  or  invasion.  Yet  his 
greatest  peril  is  one  he  little  dreams  of:  the  complete  extermination  of  every 
white-skinned  human  being  in  Maryland!" 

"Fogh!"  cried  the  Captain.  "They're  but  one  town  against  a  province!" 

"Far  from  it,"  the  tenor  replied.  "Few  white  men  know  this  town  exists, 

but  it  hath  lain  hid  here  many  and  many  a  year;  'tis  the  headquarters,  as  I 


[  562  ]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

gather,  for  a  host  of  mutinous  salvage  chiefs,  and  a  haven  for  runaway 
Negroes.  All  the  disaffected  leaders  are  smuggling  in  this  week  for  a  general 
council  of  war,  and  ourselves,  gentlemen,  will  be  eunuched  and  burnt  for 
their  amusement." 

At  this  news  Bertrand  set  up  such  a  howling  that  their  guard  thrust  in 
his  head,  jabbed  randomly  in  the  dark  with  the  butt  end  of  his  spear,  and 
muttered  unintelligible  but  unequivocal  threats.  The  tenor  replied  with 
cheerful  curses  and  remarked,  when  the  guard  withdrew,  "I  say,  there  were 
three  of  ye  came  in,  but  I've  heard  only  two  speak  out  thus  far:  is  the  other 
wight  sick,  or  fallen  a-swoon,  or  what?" 

"  Tis  not  fright  that  holds  my  tongue,  John  McEvoy,"  the  poet  said  with 
difficulty.  "  Tis  shock  and  shame!" 

The  other  prisoner  gasped.  "Nay,  i'faith!  Tis  past  belief!  Ah!  Ah!  Too 
good!  Ah,  marry,  too  good,  too  wondrous  good!  Tell  me  'tis  not  really 
Eben  Cooke  I  hear!" 

"It  is,"  Ebenezer  admitted  soberly,  and  McEvoy's  wild  laughter  brought 
new  threats  from  the  guard. 

"Ohl  Ah!  Too  good!  The  famous  virgin  poet  and  reformer  o7  London 
whores!  'Twill  be  a  joy  to  see  you  roasting  by  my  side.  Aha!  Oh!  Oh!" 

"It  ill  becomes  you  to  rejoice  so,"  the  poet  replied.  "You  set  out  a-pur- 
pose  to  ruin  my  life,  but  whate'er  injury  or  misfortune  you've  suffered  at 
my  hands  hath  been  no  wish  of  mine  at  all." 

"Marry!"  Bertrand  exclaimed.  "Is't  the  pimp  from  Pudding  Lane,  sir, 
that  tattled  to  Master  Andrew?" 

"I  take  it  ye  gentlemen  know  each  other,"  the  Captain  said  almost  at 
the  same  time,  "and  have  some  quarrel  betwixt  ye?" 

"Why,  nay,"  McEvoy  answered  sarcastically,  "no  quarrel  at  all;  'tis  only 
that  I  made  his  fortune— albeit  by  accident— and  out  of  gratitude  he  hath 
wrecked  my  life,  hastened  my  death,  and  ruined  the  woman  I  love!" 

"Yet  not  a  bit  oft  by  design,  and  scarce  even  with  knowledge,"  Ebenezer 
countered,  "whereas  'twill  please  you  to  know  your  revenge  hath  surpassed 
your  evillest  intentions.  I  have  suffered  at  the  hands  of  rogues  and  pirates, 
been  deceived  by  my  closest  friend,  swindled  out  of  my  estate,  and  obliged 
to  flee  forever  in  disgrace  from  my  father;  what's  more,  in  following  me  here, 
my  sister  hath  been  led  into  Heav'n  only  knows  what  peril,  while  poor 
Joan  Toast "  Here  he  was  overwhelmed  with  emotion  and  lost  his  voice. 

"What  of  her?"  snapped  McEvoy. 

"I  will  say  only  what  I  presume  you  saw  at  Maiden:  that  she  hath  suf- 
fered, and  suffers  yet,  inconceivable  tribulations  and  indignities,  in  conse- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  563  ] 

quence  of  which  she  is  disfigured  in  form  and  face  and  cannot  have  long 
to  live." 

McEvoy  groaned.  "And  ye  call  me  to  blame  for't,  wretch,  when  'twas 
you  she  followed?  FChrist,  if  my  hands  were  free  to  wring  your  neck!" 

"I  have  a  burthen  of  guilt,  indeed,"  Ebenezer  admitted.  "Yet  but  for 
your  tattling  to  my  father  you'd  ne'er  have  lost  her;  or,  if  you  had,  'twould' ve 
been  to  Pudding  Lane  and  not  to  Maryland.  In  any  case,  she'd  not  have 
been  raped  by  a  giant  Moor  and  infected  with  the  pox,  or  ruined  by  opium, 
or  whored  out  nightly  to  a  barnful  of  salvages!" 

At  the  pronouncement  of  each  of  these  misfortunes  McEvoy  moaned 
afresh;  hot  tears  coursed  from  the  poet's  eyes,  ran  cold  across  his  temples 
and  into  his  ears. 

"Whatever  thy  differences,  gentlemen/'  the  Captain  put  in,  from  his  posi- 
tion between  them,  "  'tis  little  to  the  purpose  to  air  'em  this  late  in  the  day. 
All  our  sins  will  soon  enough  be  rendered  out,  and  there's  an  end  on't." 

"Aiee!"  Bertrand  wailed,  and  fell  to  muttering  imprecations  in  which  the 
name  Ralph  BiTdsall  was  frequently  to  be  heard. 

"Ffaith,  'tis  true  enough,"  McEvoy  sighed,  referring  to  the  Captain's  ad- 
monition. "The  man  who  won't  forgive  his  neighbor  must  needs  have  struck 
a  wondrous  bargain  with  his  own  conscience." 

"The  best  of  us,"  Ebenezer  agreed,  "hath  certain  memories  in  the  night 
to  make  him  sweat  for  shame.  Once  before,  in  Locket's,  I  forgave  you  for 
your  letter  to  my  father;  yet  'twas  a  bragging  sort  of  pardon,  inasmuch  as 
what  you'd  done  had  seemed  to  make  my  fortune.  Now  I  have  lost  title, 
fortune,  love,  honor,  and  life  itself,  let  me  forgive  you  again,  McEvoy,  and 
beg  your  own  forgiveness  in  return." 

The  Irishman  concurred,  but  admitted  that  since  Ebenezer  had  at  no 
time  set  about  deliberately  to  injure  either  him  or  Joan  Toast,  there  was 
little  or  nothing  to  be  forgiven. 

"Not  so,  friend— i'Christ,  not  so!"  The  poet  wept,  and  related  as  coher- 
ently as  he  could  his  trials  with  Captain  Pound,  the  rape  of  the  Cyprian, 
his  bargain  with  the  swine-girl,  the  loss  of  his  estate,  and  his  obligatory 
marriage  to  Joan  Toast.  In  particular  he  dwelt  upon  his  responsibility  in 
Joan's  downfall,  her  solicitude  during  his  protracted  "seasoning,"  and  the 
self-sacrificing  magnanimity  of  her  plan  for  their  flight  to  England,  until 
not  only  himself  and  McEvoy,  but  the  whole  imprisoned  company  were 
sniffling  and  weeping  at  her  goodness. 

"For  reward/'  Ebenezer  went  on,  "she  asked  no  more  than  that  I  give 


[  564  ]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

her  my  ring  for  hers,  to  make  her  feel  less  a  harlot,  and  that  she  be  given 
the  honor  of  providing  for  me  in  London " 

"As  she  did  for  me,"  McEvoy  reverently  interposed. 

The  Captain  sniffled.  "She  is  a  very  Catholic  saint  of  a  whore!" 

"And  to  think  I  spoke  so  freely  to  her  at  Captain  Mitchell's/'  Bertrand 
marveled,  "when  we  thought  her  but  a  scurfy  wench  of  a  pig-driver!" 

"Stay,  sirs,"  Ebenezer  demanded  sadly;  "you  have  not  heard  the  begin- 
ning of  my  shame.  D'you  think,  when  she  made  this  martyr's  proposition,  I 
refused  to  hear  oft,  but  ordered  her  off  to  England  on  her  own  six  pounds 
and  promised  to  rejoin  her  when  I  could?  Or  did  I,  at  the  very  least,  go 
down  on  my  knees  before  such  Christlike  charity  and  kiss  the  hem  of  her 
precious  ragged  dress?  Imagine  the  very  worst  of  me,  sirs:  d'you  suppose  I 
merely  thanked  her  with  great  feeling,  let  her  whore  up  her  boat  fare  from 
the  Indians  in  the  curing-house,  and  sailed  off  with  her  to  be  her  pimp  in 
London?" 

"God  forgive  ye  if  ye  did,"  the  Captain  murmured,  apparently  too  caught 
up  in  the  tale  to  remember  the  presence  of  its  teller. 

"Should  God  forgive  me  thrice  o'er/'  said  Ebenezer,  "I  would  bear  still 
a  weight  of  guilt  sufficient  to  drag  ten  men  to  Hell.  The  fact  is,  gentlemen, 
I  accepted  the  six  pounds,  sent  her  off  to  the  curing-house— and  fled  alone 
to  the  bark  in  Cambridge,  leaving  her  to  perish  of  her  opium,  her  pox,  and 
her  cruelly  broken  heart!  What  say  you  to  that,  McEvoy?" 

"Forgiven,  forgiven!"  cried  the  Irishman.  "And  God  save  us  all!  Methinks 
the  fire  that  cooks  our  poor  flesh  will  be  cool  beside  the  flames  that  roast 
our  souls!" 

Some  minutes  passed  in  silence  while  the  company  reflected  on  the  story 
and  on  their  fate,  or  merely  shivered  in  the  cold  draughts  that  filtered 
through  the  thatch.  Presently,  in  a  calmer  voice,  Ebenezer  asked  McEvoy 
how  he  had  happened  to  be  a  redemptioner,  and  what  ill  fortune  had  led 
him  to  Bloodsworth  Island.  The  query  elicited  a  number  of  great  sighing 
curses,  after  which,  and  several  false  starts,  McEvoy  offered  the  following 
explanation: 

"I  am  but  two-and-twenty,  sirs,  as  near  as  one  can  reckon  that  hath  not 
the  faintest  notion  of  his  birth  date;  but  i'faith,  I've  been  an  old  man  all 
my  life!  My  earliest  memory  is  of  singing  for  ha'pennies  by  Barking  Church, 
for  a  legless  wretch  named  Patcher  that  called  himself  my  father;  I  was 
half  dead  o'  the  cold  and  like  to  faint  away  from  hunger— for  de'il  the  crust 
I'd  see  of  a  loaf  old  Patcher  bought  with  my  earnings!— and  the  reason  I 
recall  it,  I  had  to  sing  myself  alive,  as't  were,  or  fall  down  in  the  snow,  yet 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  .     [  $65  ] 

I  durst  not  unclench  my  teeth  lest  they  ruin  the  song  with  chattering.  Old 
Patcher  must  needs  have  been  a  music-master,  for  whene'er  I  strayed  a 
quaver  out  o'  key  he'd  cane  me  into  tune  with  his  hickory  crutch.  Many's 
the  lutist  that  can  play  with  his  eyes  closed,  but  I'll  wager  'tis  a  rare  tenor 
can  sing  a  come-all-ye  with  his  jaws  shut  fasti 

"Yet  sing  'em  I  did,  and  true  as  gospel,  as  he'd  taught  me,  nor  did  I  e'er 
lament  my  plight  or  rail  at  Patcher  in  my  mind;  in  sooth,  'twas  not  his 
cruelty  made  me  vow  to  be  shed  of  him  but  his  mistakes  upon  the  lute  he 
played  to  accompany  my  songs!  Some  winters  later,  when  I  was  stronger 
and  he  weaker,  we  were  working  Newgate  Market  in  a  blizzard;  Patcher's 
fingers  were  that  benumbed,  he  played  as  I  might  with  the  toes  o'  my  feet, 
and  the  sound  so  offended  my  ear,  I  flew  into  a  passion,  snatched  up  the 
hickory-crutch,  and  laid  him  low  with  a  single  swingeing  clout  aside  the 
head.  So  doth  the  pupil  repeat  his  lesson!" 

"You  killed  him,  then?"  asked  Ebenezer. 

"I  did  not  tarry  to  find  out,"  McEvoy  laughed.  "When  I  saw  him  fall 
o'er  upon  the  cobbles  I  snatched  up  his  lute  and  fled.  But  Newgate  Market 
was  near  deserted,  and  the  weather  freezing,  and  though  I  begged  my  way 
through  London  for  many  a  year  after,  singing  the  songs  he  taught  me 
and  playing  on  his  lute,  I  ne'er  saw  old  Patcher  again.  Thus  ended  my 
apprenticeship:  I  joined  the  ranks  of  those  who  get  their  living  from  the 
streets,  a  journeyman  musician  and  master  beggar,  and  my  own  man  from 
that  day  to  this." 

"Unhappy  child!" 

McEvoy  sniffed  contemptuously.  "So  speaks  the  virgin  poet." 

•"Nay,  John;  for  all  your  sorry  trials  you  were  still  an  innocent  amongst 
the  wolves." 

"Say  rather  a  whelp  amongst  his  elders,  and  no  mean  hand  at  wolfing. 
My  virginity  I  lost  to  the  aged  whores  that  nursed  my  boyish  ailments,  but 
innocence  I  never  lost,  nor  fear  nor  faith  in  God  and  man— for  the  reason 
one  cannot  lose  what  he  never  hath  possessed.  I  played  in  taverns  for  my 
bed  and  board,  and  whene'er  I  wanted  for  money— but  'tis  no  news  to  the 
Laureate  that  your  true  artist  need  not  be  handsome  to  please  the  ladies; 
his  talent  serves  for  face,  place,  and  grace  together,  and  for  all  he  hath 
been  sired  by  a  legless  beggar  upon  a  drunken  gutter-tart,  if  his  art  hath 
power  to  stir  he  may  be  wined  and  dined  by  dukes  and  spread  the  knees 
of  young  marquesas!  In  short,  when  I  grew  fond  of  inventing  melodies,  I 
invested  in  the  love  of  wealthy  women " 

"Invested!"  cried  Bertrand,  who  to  this  point  had  expressed  no  interest 


[  566  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

in  the  tale.  "Tis  an  uncommon  profitable  investment  that  pays  cash 
dividends  on  no  capital!" 

"Nay,  don't  mistake  me/'  McEvoy  said  seriously.  "Time  was  my  capital, 
the  precious  mortal  time  one  wastes  a-wooing;  and  my  return  was  time  as 
well— hours  bought  from  singing  for  my  supper,  and  from  doing  the  hun- 
dred mean  chores  a  poor  man  doth  for  himself  perforce.  Twas  an  invest- 
ment like  any  other,  and  I  chose  it  for  a  proper  tradesman's  reason:  it  paid 
a  higher  return  on  my  capital  than  did  aught  el§e,  in  mortal  time." 

"Yet  you  must  own  'twas  something  callous,"  ventured  the  poet. 

"No  more  than  any  honest  business,"  McEvoy  insisted.  "If  any  hearts 
were  injured,  why,  the  wounds  were  self-inflicted;  I  promised  naught,  and 
always  kept  my  promise,  and  there's  an  end  on't." 

"But  surely  Joan  Toast " 

"I  have  said  naught  o'  Joan  Toast,"  the  Irishman  reproved.  "'Tis  the 
wives  and  daughters  o'  the  rich  I  did  my  business  with,  that  call  their 
pandering  patronage,  and  are  much  given  to  fornication  in  the  noble  cause 
of  Art.  Joan  Toast  was  a  penceless  guttersnipe  like  myself— and  an  artist 
as  well,  in  her  way,  only  her  instruments  were  different  from  my  own." 

"Ha!  Well  saidl"  cried  Bertrand.  Ebenezer  made  no  comment. 

"I  was  eighteen  when  first  I  met  her:  she  had  been  hired  to  service  a 
certain  debauched  young  peer,  whose  wife,  not  to  be  outdone,  hired  me  to 
play  the  same  game  with  herself.  The  four  of  us  sat  down  to  pheasant  and 
Rhenish,  for  all  the  world  like  two  pairs  o'  newlyweds,  which  pleased  his 
lordship's  jaded  fancy  mightily;  in  sooth,  as  the  wine  got  hold  of  him  he 
made  a  series  of  lewd  proposals,  each  more  unnatural  than  the  one  before. 
And  since  perversion,  like  refinement,  is  an  arc,  the  which,  if  ye  but  extend 
it  far  enough,  returns  upon  itself,  by  the  evening's  end  naught  tickled  the 
wretch's  lust  so  much  as  the  thought  of  taking  his  lawful  wife  to  bed!  Joan 
Toast  and  I  were  turned  out  together,  and  as  we'd  done  no  more  than  eat 
a  meal  to  earn  our  hire,  we  made  a  night  oft  in  her  little  room  near 
Ludgate.  E'en  then,  at  seventeen,  she  was  the  soul  o'  worldliness:  ill-tutored 
as  I  was,  she  made  me  think  of  ancient  Rome,  or  ancient  Greece,  or  realms 
more  ancient  still;  she  was  fresh  and  full  of  spirit  as  a  blooded  colt,  but  her 
eyes  were  old  as  the  world,  and  in  her  gestures  was  the  history  of  the  race. 
Small  wonder  his  lordship  craved  her:  she  was  the  elixir  of  her  sex,  and  who 
swived  her  swived  no  woman,  but  Womankind! 

"We  stayed  some'days  there  in  her  chamber,  sending  out  for  food  till  our 
hire  was  spent;  when  we  went  down  again  together  to  the  street^  'twas  with 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  567  ] 

a  certain  pact  between  us,  that  lasted  till  the  night  o'  your  wager  with 
Ben  Oliver." 

"In  plain  English,"  remarked  the  Captain,  "ye  was  her  pimp." 

"In  plainer,"  McEvoy  replied  without  hesitation,  "we  twain  were  to  the 
arts  o'  love  like  the  hands  o'  the  lutist  to  his  music:  together,  at  our  proper 
work,  ^e  could  set  Heaven's  vaults  a-tremble;  all  else  was  the  common 
business  of  survival,  to  be  got  o'er  by  whatever  means  were  most  expedient. 
Besides,  a  man  asked  no  questions  of  Joan  Toast— not  in  those  days,  sir! 
The  miracle  was  that  such  a  creature  lived;  I'd  no  more  have  quarreled 
with  her  arrangements  -than  I'd  quarrel  with  the  sum  o'  history,  or  cavil 
at  the  patterns  of  the  stars." 

"For  all  that,"  Bertrand  remarked,  "thou'rt  no  nearer  Maryland  now 
than  when  ye  started,  and  this  night— worse  luck!— shan't  last  forever." 

"Let  him  tell  on,"  the  Captain  said.  "  'Tis  either  a  tale  or  the  Shuddering 
Fearfuls  in  straits  like  these." 

"Aye,  John,  tell  on,"  Ebenezer  encouraged.  "You  can  do  naught  to  ease 
my  guilt,  but  it  may  be  your  tale  will  lessen  by  one  the  questions  Til  ne'er 
find  answers  to.  How  is't  you  knew  Joan  Toast  had  followed  me?  And  how 
is't  you  fell  into  Tom  Tayloe's  hands?" 

"Tayloe!  Ye've  heard  o'  Tom  Tayloe  and  me?" 

Ebenezer  explained  the  circumstances  of  his  acquaintanceship  with 
Tayloe  and  related  the  substance,  as  best  he  could  recall  it,  of  what  the 
corpulent  seller  of  indentured  servants  had  told  him  en  route  to  Cooke's 
Point  aboard  Richard  Sowter's  boat.  McEvoy  was  vastly  amused;  indeed, 
he  laughed  as  heartily  at  the  news  of  Tayloe's  indenture  to  the  cooper 
William  Smith  as  if  he  were  hearing  the  story  in  Locket's  instead  of  a 
prison-hut,  and  the  Captain  was  moved  to  observe,  "Methinks  'tis  he 
should  be  merry,  not  you,  sir;  he  hath  the  better  bargain  after  all!" 

"Aye  and  he  hath,"  Ebenezer  agreed.  "But  e'en  were  we  not  here  in  the 
very  vestibule  of  death,  'twould  ill  become  us  to  jest  at  the  man's  ill  luck." 

But  McEvoy  only  laughed  again.  "What  humanists  death  hatches  out  of 
menl  Ye  have  forgot  what  a  worthless  wretch  Tom  Tayloe  was,  that  preyed 
on  masters  and  servants  alike!" 

"A  wretch  he  might  have  been,"  the  poet  allowed,  "and  deserving  of  your 
prank;  but  his  time  is  no  less  mortal  than  our  own,  and  to  rob  him  of  four 
years  oft  is  to  carry  the  jest  too  far."  He  sighed.  "I  'Christ,  when  I  think  of 
the  weeks  and  years  I've  squandered!  Precious,  precious  mortal  time!  I  be- 
grudge every  day  I  spent  not  writing  verse!" 

"And  I  every  night  I  slept  alone  in  London,"  Bertrand  said  fervently. 


[  [-68  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"What  matter  if  a  man  lives  seven  years  or  seventy?  His  years  are  not  an 
eyeblink  to  eternity,  and  de'il  the  way  he  spends  'em-whether  steering  ships 
or  scribbling  verse,  or  building  towns  or  burning  'em— he  dies  like  a  May 
fly  when  his  day  is  done,  and  the  stars  go  round  their  courses  just  the  same. 
Where's  the  profit  and  loss  o'  his  labors?  He'd  as  well  have  stayed  abed,  or 
sat  his  bum  on  a  bench  and  watched  the  blind  wights  curse  and  labor 
over  naught." 

Although  Ebenezer  stirred  uneasily  at  these  words,  remembering  his 
state  of  mind  at  Magdalene  College  and  in  his  room  in  Pudding  Lane,  he 
nevertheless  reaffirmed  his  belief  in  the  value  of  human  time,  arguing  from 
the  analogy  of  precious  stones  and  metals  that  the  value  of  commodities 
increases  inversely  with  their  supply  where  demand  is  constant,  and  with 
demand  where  supply  is  constant,  so  that  mortal  time,  being  infinitesimal 
in  supply  and  virtually  infinite  in  demand,  was  therefore  infinitely  precious 
to  mortal  men. 

"Marry  come  up!"  McEvoy  cried  impatiently.  "Ye  twain  remind  me  of 
children  I  saw  once  at  St.  Bartholomew's  Fair,  that  queued  up  to  ride  in 
a  little  red  pony  cart .  .  ." 

He  did  not  bother  to  explain  his  figure,  but  Ebenezer  understood  it 
immediately,  or  thought  he  understood  it,  for  he  said,  at  once,  "Thou'rt 
right,  McEvoy;  there  is  no  argument  'twixt  the  Captain  and  myself.  I  recall 
the  day  my  sister  and  I  turned  five  and  were  allowed  an  extra  hour  'twixt 
bath  and  bed.  Mrs.  Twigg  would  soap  our  faces,  dress  us  in  our  nightclothes, 
and  set  her  hourglass  running  there  in  the  nursery;  we  could  do  whatever 
we  wished  with  the  time,  but  when  the  sand  had  run  'twas  off  to  bed  and 
no  lingering!  I'faith,  what  a  treasure  that  hour  seemed:  time  for  any  of  a 
hundred  pleasures!  We  fetched  out  the  cards,  to  play  some  game  or  other— 
but  what  silly  game  was  worth  such  a  wondrous  hour?  I  vowed  I'd  build 
a  castle  out  of  blocks,  and  Anna  set  to  drawing  three  soldiers  upon  a 
paper—but  neither  of  us  could  pursue  his  sport  for  long,  for  thinking  the 
other  had  chosen  more  wisely,  so  that  anon  we  made  exchange  and  were 
no  more  pleased.  We  cast  about  more  desperately  among  our  toys  and 
games— whereof  any  one  had  sufficed  for  an  hour's  diversion  earlier  in  the 
day— but  none  would  do,  and  still  the  glass  ran  on!  Any  hour  save  this 
most  prime  and  measured  we  had  been  pleased  enough  to  do  no  more 
than  talk,  or  watch  the  world  at  work  outside  our  nursery  window,  but 
when  I  cried  'Heavy,  heavy  hangs  over  thy  head/  to  commence  a  guessing 
game,  Anna  fell  straightway  to  weeping,  and  I  soon  joined  her.  Yet  e'en 
our  tears  did  naught  to  ease  our  desperation;  indeed,  they  but  heightened 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  569  ] 

it  the  more,  for  all  the  while  we  wept,  our  hour  was  slipping  by.  Now 
bedtime,  mind,  we'd  ne'er  before  looked  on  as  evil,  but  that  sand  was  like 
our  lifeblood  draining  from  some  wound;  we  sat  and  wept,  and  watched 
it  flow,  and  the  upshot  oft  was,  we  both  fell  ill  and  took  to  heaving,  and 
Mrs.  Twigg  fetched  us  off  to  bed  with  our  last  quarter  hour  still  in  the 
glass/' 

"Which  teaches  us ?"  questioned  McEvoy. 

"Which  teaches  us,"  Ebenezer  responded  sadly,  "that  naught  can  be 
inferred  to  guide  our  conduct  from  the  fact  of  our  mortality:  Epicurus,  in 
this  respect,  was  not  wiser  nor  less  wise  than  Alexander.  Nonetheless,  if 
Maiden  were  mine,  I'd  set  Tom  Tayloe  free  forthwith." 

"But  in  the  meanwhile  I  may  laugh  at  him  all  I  please,"  McEyoy  added, 
"which— philosophy  be  damned— is  what  I'd  do  in  any  case.  D'ye  want  to 
hear  my  tale  or  no?" 

Ebenezer  declared  that  he  did  indeed,  and  apologized  for  the  interrup- 
tion, although  in  fact  his  interest  in  McEvoy's  adventures  waned  with  every 
speeding  minute  of  the  night,  and  he  felt  in  his  heart  that  his  digression 
had  been  considerably  more  germane  to  their  present  plight. 

"Very  well,  then,"  the  Irishman  began;  "the  fact  oft  is,  I  had  at  first 
no  mind  at  all  to  come  to  Maryland.  When  Joan  Toast  left  me  I  knew 
we  were  over  and  done— 'tis  her  wont  to  give  all  or  naught,  as  well  ye 
know— yet  no  folly  is  too  immense  for  the  desperate  lover,  nor  any  con- 
trary fact  so  plain  that  Hope  cannot  paint  it  to  his  colors.  To  be  brief,  I 
feared  she'd  follow  ye  off  to  Maryland,  and  in  order  to  intercept  her  I  took 
lodgings  in  the  posthouse,  put  on  my  grandest  swagger,  and  gave  out  to 
all  and  sundry  I  was  Ebenezer  Cooke,  the  Laureate  of  Maryland  .  .  ," 

"  'Sheart,  another!"  Ebenezer  cried.  "Maryland  hath  a  very  infestation 
of  laureate  poets!" 

"  Twas  a  wild  imposture,"  McEvoy  said  good-humoredly,  "Heav'n  knows 
what  I  meant  to  do  if  Joan  Toast  sought  me  out!  But  in  any  case  my 
tenure  of  office  was  wondrous  brief:  I  had  scarce  raised  a  general  toast  to 
the  Maryland  muse  ere  a  gang  of  bullies  burst  in  with  some  tale  of  a  stolen 
ledger-book  and,  being  told  I  was  Master  Eben  Cooke  the  poet,  they 
straightway  hauled  me  off  to  jail." 

"La,  now!"  laughed  Bertrand.  "There's  a  mystery  cleared,  sirs,  that  hath 
plagued  me  these  many  months  whene'er  I  thought  oft!  When  I  came 
to  the  posthouse  to  hide  from  Ralph  Birdsall's  knife— that  I  wish  I'd  suf- 
fered, and  been  a  live  eunuch  instead  of  a  dead  one!— what  I  mean,  when 
I  asked  about  for  the  Laureate,  I  heard  he'd  been  fetched  off  to  prison. 


[  ry0  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Twas  that  very  tragedy  inspired  me  to  take  his  place  and  flee  to  Plymouth; 
yet  when  Master  Eben  found  me  on  the  Poseidon,  he  vowed  he'd  ne'er 
been  set  upon  by  Ben  Bragg's  men  and  thought  me  a  liar.  Doth  this  news 
not  absolve  me,  sir?" 

"No  fear  of  that,"  replied  the  poet.  "Tis  too  late  in  the  day  for  aught 
but  general  absolution.  There  are  some  small  lacunae  yet,  as't  were,  in  the 
text  of  your  pretty  tale— but  let  them  go.  What  did  you  then,  McEvoy? 
I  pray  you  were  not  held  long  for  my  little  theftl" 

"Only  till  the  following  mom,"  McEvoy  said,  "when  Bragg  came  round 
and  saw  he'd  hooked  the  wrong  fish.  By  then  I'd  lost  my  taste  for  farther 
nonsense;  I  resolved  to  quit  my  search  for  Joan  and  commence  the  mighty 
labor  of  forgetting  her.  I  returned  to  my  old  pursuits  among  the  wealthy; 
took  up  my  lute  and  played  the  tuneful  gigolo.  But  though  I  had  some 
small  success  at  first,  my  years  with  Joan  had  spoiled  me:  the  ladies  felt 
a  small  scorn  in  my  rutting,  belike,  or  heard  some  certain  coldness  in  my 
voice  ...  In  any  case  I  was  soon  unemployed  and  anon  was  driven  to 
lute  it  on  the  street  corners  for  my  living,  by  Botolph's  Wharf  and  the 
Steel  Yard,  and  Newgate  Market,,  where  my  life  began.  What  I  earned 
I  spent  on  whores,  to  no  avail:  when  a  man  hath  lain  a  thousand  nights 
with  his  beloved  and  no  other,  he  knows  her  from  crown  to  sole  with 
all  his  senses— every  muscle,  every  pore,  every  sigh;  every  action  and  re- 
action of  her  limbs  and  heart  and  mind  he  knows  as  he  knows  his  own. 
Put  some  other  wench  beside  him  in  the  dark:  her  mere  displacement  of 
the  air  he  feels  at  once  as  an  alien  thing;  the  simple  press  of  her  on  the 
pallet  is  foreign  to  his  senses;  her  very  breathing  startles  him,  so  different 
in  pitch  and  rhythm!  She  puts  out  an  ardent  hand:  his  flesh  recoils  as 
from  some  brute-o'-the-forest's  paw.  They  come  together:  i'Christ,  how 
clumsy!— their  arms,  that  would  embrace,  knock  elbows  or  can  find  no  place 
to  lie;  their  legs  entangle,  that  would  entwine;  it  seems  their  chins  and 
noses  will  not  fit.  He  would  caress  her:  he  pokes  her  ribs  instead,  or  scratches 
her  with  a  hangnail.  Some  amorous  word  or  gesture  takes  him  by  surprise: 
he  is  unmanned,  or  like  a  green  recruit,  shoots  his  bolt  ere  the  issue  is 
fairly  joined.  In  short,  though  he  hath  been  to  his  beloved  a  master  lutes- 
man  upon  his  lute,  now  he  finds  he  hath  bestrode  a  violincello,  whereof 
he  knows  not  gooseneck  from  /-hole;  he  hits  no  string  aright,  fingers  blindly 
to  no  purpose,  and  in  the  end  hath  but  a  headache  from  his  plucking." 

The  whole  company,  despite  their  position,  were  amused  by  this  apos- 
trophe; Bertrand  even  laughed  aloud  and  begged  McEvoy  to  continue  in 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  57!  ] 

the  same  vein,  that  he  might  cheat  the  Indians'  design  by  dying  of  mirth. 
But  the  Irishman  resumed  his  discourse  in  a  sober  voice: 

"Seeing  that  whores  were  not  my  medicine,  I  turned  to  rum  and  soaked 
myself  to  oblivion  each  night.  My  hands  grew  clumsy  on  the  lute,  my  voice 
thickened  and  cracked,  my  ear  went  dull,  and  every  night  required  more 
rum  than  the  night  before;  so  that  anon  I  could  not  beg  enough  to  drink 
on,  and  had  perforce  to  turn  to  theft  to  gain  my  ends.  Then  one  night— 
'twas  a  full  three  months  after  your  departure— a  sailorman  gave  me  a  shill- 
ing to  sing  Joan's  Placket  Is  Torn  for  him,  and  when  I  had  done,  declared 
himself  so  pleased  that  he  filled  me  with  rum  at  his  own  expense.  Twas 
my  guess  he  had  some  queer  design— and  little  I  cared,  so  he  let  me  drink 
my  fill!  But  I  was  wrong  .  .  ." 

"God  help  ye,  then,"  the  Captain  muttered.  "I  can  guess  the  rest:  Ye, 
was  spirited  off?" 

"I  fell  senseless  in  some  inn  near  Baynard's  Castle,"  McEvoy  said,  "and 
woke  fettered  in  the  'tweendecks  of  a  moving  ship.  At  first  I  had  no  notion 
whither  we  sailed  or  to  what  end  I  had  been  kidnaped,  but  anon  some 
among  us,  that  went  unfettered,  declared  they  were  redemptioners  bound 
for  Maryland  and  explained  'twas  not  uncommon  for  a  certain  sort  of  cap- 
tain to  fill  out  his  cargo  with  wharf  rats  like  myself  and  the  half-dozen 
others  who  had  waked  to  find  themselves  leg-ironed  to  a  ship. 

"Presently  the  first  mate  made  us  a  speech,  whereof  the  substance  was 
that  we  were  in  his  debt  for  being  saved  from  our  old  profligacy  and 
ferried  without  charge  to  a  land  where  we  might  build  our  lives  anew,  and 
that  any  man  of  us  who  honored  this  obligation  and  pledged  himself  to 
act  accordingly  would  be  freed  of  his  leg  iron  then  and  there.  All  the  rest 
were  glad  enough  to  swear  whatever  lying  pledge  he  pledged  'em,  but 
when  I  saw  that  this  pious  first  mate  was  the  very  wretch  who  had  undone 
me  the  night  before,  I  let  fly  such  a  grapeshot  of  curses  that  he  mined 
my  mouth  with  his  boot  and  swore  he'd  starve  me  into  virtue  or  into 
Hell  ere  the  voyage  was  done. 

"Now  a  man  like  me,  that  hath  been  an  orphan  beggar  all  his  life  and 
feels  neither  shame  nor  poverty,  is  as  free  a  man  as  any  thou'rt  like  to 
find,  and  'tis  no  wonder  he  grows  most  jealous  of  his  liberty.  "Tis  true 
I'd  been  jailed  not  long  since  for  petty  stealing,  and  once  ere  that  when 
I  posed  as  Laureate;  but  both  times  'twas  my  owu  misdoings  brought  me 
to  jail,  and  since  by  liberty  is  meant  one's  rights,  'tis  no  loss  of  liberty  to 
be  justly  jailed  for  crime.  Contrariwise,  'tis  a  gross  offence  against  liberty 
to  be  fettered  against  one's  wishes  and  for  no  just  cause,  and  the  wights 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  571  ] 

the  same  vein,  that  he  might  cheat  the  Indians'  design  by  dying  of  mirth. 
But  the  Irishman  resumed  his  discourse  in  a  sober  voice: 

"Seeing  that  whores  were  not  my  medicine,  I  turned  to  rum  and  soaked 
myself  to  oblivion  each  night.  My  hands  grew  clumsy  on  the  lute,  my  voice 
thickened  and  cracked,  my  ear  went  dull,  and  every  night  required  more 
rum  than  the  night  before;  so  that  anon  I  could  not  beg  enough  to  drink 
on,  and  had  perforce  to  turn  to  theft  to  gain  my  ends.  Then  one  night— 
'twas  a  full  three  months  after  your  departure—a  sailorman  gave  me  a  shill- 
ing to  sing  Joan's  Placket  Is  Torn  for  him,  and  when  I  had  done,  declared 
himself  so  pleased  that  he  filled  me  with  rum  at  his  own  expense.  'Twas 
my  guess  he  had  some  queer  design— and  little  I  cared,  so  he  let  me  drink 
my  fill!  But  I  was  wrong  .  .  ." 

"God  help  ye,  then,"  the  Captain  muttered.  "I  can  guess  the  rest:  Ye 
was  spirited  off?" 

"I  fell  senseless  in  some  inn  near  Baynard's  Castle,"  McEvoy  said,  "and 
woke  fettered  in  the  'tweendecks  of  a  moving  ship.  At  first  I  had  no  notion 
whither  we  sailed  or  to  what  end  I  had  been  kidnaped,  but  anon  some 
among  us,  that  went  unfettered,  declared  they  were  redemptioners  bound 
for  Maryland  and  explained  'twas  not  uncommon  for  a  certain  sort  of  cap- 
tain to  fill  out  his  cargo  with  wharf  rats  like  myself  and  the  half-dozen 
others  who  had  waked  to  find  themselves  leg-ironed  to  a  ship. 

"Presently  the  first  mate  made  us  a  speech,  whereof  the  substance  was 
that  we  were  in  his  debt  for  being  saved  from  our  old  profligacy  and 
ferried  without  charge  to  a  land  where  we  might  build  our  lives  anew,  and 
that  any  man  of  us  who  honored  this  obligation  and  pledged  himself  to 
act  accordingly  would  be  freed  of  his  leg  iron  then  and  there.  All  the  rest 
were  glad  enough  to  swear  whatever  lying  pledge  he  pledged  'em,  but 
when  I  saw  that  this  pious  first  mate  was  the  very  wretch  who  had  undone 
me  the  night  before,  I  let  fly  such  a  grapeshot  of  curses  that  he  ruined 
my  mouth  with  his  boot  and  swore  he'd  starve  me  into  virtue  or  into 
Hell  ere  the  voyage  was  done. 

"Now  a  man  like  me,  that  hath  been  an  orphan  beggar  all  his  life  and 
feels  neither  shame  nor  poverty,  is  as  free  a  man  as  any  thou'rt  like  to 
find,  and  'tis  no  wonder  he  grows  most  jealous  of  his  liberty.  Tis  true 
I'd  been  jailed  not  long  since  for  petty  stealing,  and  once  ere  that  when 
I  posed  as  Laureate;  but  both  times  'twas  my  own  misdoings  brought  me 
to  jail,  and  since  by  liberty  is  meant  one's  rights,  'tis  no  loss  of  liberty  to 
be  justly  jailed  for  crime.  Contrariwise,  'tis  a  gross  offence  against  liberty 
to  be  fettered  against  one's  wishes  and  for  no  just  cause,  and  the  wights 


[  572  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

who  swore  that  scandalous  oath  to  shed  their  leg  irons,  so  far  from  gaining 
any  liberty  thereby,  did  but  surrender  the  dearest  liberty  of  all— the  right 
to  rail  against  injustice." 

"There  is  much  wisdom  in  what  you  say/'  Ebenezer  remarked,  consid- 
erably impressed  by  McEvoy's  words  and  humbled  anew,  not  only  by  his 
suspicion  that  under  similar  circumstances  he  would  not  have  displayed 
such  costly  integrity,  but  also  by  his  conviction— no  less  disquieting  for  its 
present  irrelevancy— that  McEvoy  was  far  more  worthy  of  Joan  Toast 
than  was  he,  and  had  been  so  from  the  beginning. 

"Wise  or  foolish,  'twas  my  sentiment  in  the  matter/'  McEvoy  said,  "and 
albeit  I  tasted  the  whoreson's  leather  oft  and  oft  in  the  days  that  followed, 
at  least  'twas  ne'er  by  licking  his  boots  I  learnt  the  flavor.  He  did  not  quite 
starve  me  to  death  as  he  had  promised,  whether  because  he  took  such 
pleasure  in  kicking  me  or  because  he  was  loath  to  let  me  perish  unrepentant. 
I  was  moved  from  the  'tweendecks  into  the  hold  lest  I  start  a  mutiny  by 
my  example,  and  I  ne'er  saw  daylight  again  till  the  end  of  the  voyage, 
when  they  fetched  me  up  on  deck  to  sell  with  the  rest." 

"Whereupon,"  Ebenezer  put  in,  "if  Tayloe  told  me  aright,  you  straight- 
way leaped  into  the  river  and  made  for  your  liberty— but  they  fished  you 
out." 

"Aye,  and  saved  my  life,  for  I  learned  too  late  I  had  not  strength  enough 
to  swim  ten  strokes.  And  on  reflection  it  seemed  a  fair  choice  to  go  with 
Tom  Tayloe;  I  judged  his  brains  to  be  as  swinish  as  his  manner  and  his 
appearance,  and  guessed  'twould  be  no  great  matter  to  outwit  him  at  the 
proper  moment.  Nor  was  I  mistaken,  as  ye  heard  from  the  swine  himself. 
I  only  wish  my  friend  Dick  Parker  had  been  less  rash;  to  be  sure,  he  was 
a  king,  and  there's  the  difference— but  I've  not  told  ye  about  Dick  Parker, 
have  I,  now?  Ah  well,  no  matter:  we  swim  in  an  ocean  of  story,  but 
a  tumblerful  slakes  our  thirst.  Besides,  the  night's  nigh  done,  is*t  not? 
To  conclude,  then,  gentlemen;  I  bartered  Tom  Tayloe  for  a  horse,  as  Eben 
hath  told— and  a  foundered  jade  at  that,  but  worth  a  score  o'  servant-brokers 
—and  since  Fd  learnt  I  was  in  Maryland  I  resolved  to  ride  out  privily  to 
Cooke's  Point,  merely  to  satisfy  myself  that  Joan  was  there  and  happy 
in  her  choice."  He  laughed.  "La,  what  rot  is  that?  I  rode  out  in  hopes 
she'd  had  her  fill  of  innocence!  I  well  knew  my  wretched  case  would 
move  her  to  pity  and  I  prayed  she  might  mistake  that  pity  for  love.  'Twas 
a  desperate  piece  o'  wishing  and  proved  false  in  two  respects:  her  plight, 
I  found,  was  far  more  wretched  than  mine,  but  neither  pox  nor  opium 
nor  cruelty,  nor  the  face  o'  death  itself— how  much  less  pityl— could  turn 
her  from  her  course  once  she  had  set  it. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  573  ] 

"I  did  not  tarry:  Tom  Tayloe,  I  supposed,  would  turn  the  country  in- 
side out  to  find  the  fugitive  that  gulled  him.  I  resolved  to  make  my  way 
to  Virginia,  if  I  could  find  it,  or  Carolina,  and  haply  join  some  bloody 
crew  o'  pirates.  To  this  end  I  joined  company  with  a  runaway  Negro  slave 
that  had  been  chained  with  me  in  the  ship's  hold— one  o'  Parker's  chief 
lieutenants,  he  was,  named  Bandy  Lou,  that  had  learnt  a  mickle  English. 
'Twas  his  idea  we  make  for  Bloodsworth  Island,  which  he  had  heard  was 
a-swarm  with  fugitives  like  ourselves.  We  didn't  know  they  love  a  white 
man  as  the  Devil  loves  holy  water,  and  when  we  learned  it,  'twas  all  too 
late:  Bandy  Lou  they  welcomed  as  a  brother,  but  me,  for  all  his  pleadings, 
they  trussed  up  and  put  aside  against  the  day " 

"Hi  there!"  the  Captain  interrupted.  "What's  that  I  hear?" 

McEvoy  left  his  sentence  unfinished,  and  the  prisoners  strained  to  listen. 
From  far  off  in  the  marshes  came  a  series  of  sharp  cries,  like  the  cawing  of 
a  crow,  and  the  guard  outside  their  hut  responded  in  kind. 

"Some  new  arrivals  to  the  grand  Black  Mass,"  McEvoy  murmured. 
"They've  been  coming  in  every  night  this  week." 

The  signal  cries  were  repeated,  and  then  in  the  distance  the  prisoners 
could  hear  a  deep,  rhythmical  mutter,  as  of  many  men  rumbling  a  soft 
chant  as  they  marched.  The  sentry  outside  sprang  up  and  cried  to  the 
slumbering  village  some  terse  announcement,  which,  though  incompre- 
hensible to  the  Englishmen,  effected  an  immediate  stir  among  the  huts. 
People  chattered  with  subdued  excitement  and  bustled  about  the  square; 
sharp  orders  were  issued  here  and  there;  new  logs  clumped  and  crackled 
on  the  fire;  and  the  chant  grew  clearer  and  stronger  all  the  while. 

"I'f aith^  'tis  like  no  Indian  song  I've  heard  before,"  the  Captain  whispered. 

"Nay,  'tis  a  black  man's  chanting,  by  the  pitch  and  rhythm  oft,"  McEvoy 
replied.  "I  heard  Dick  Parker  and  Bandy  Lou  sing  the  like  oft  in  the 
ship's  hold,  and  the  Africans  hereabouts  have  done  the  same  for  the  last 
few  nights.  'Sheart,  but  it  makes  the  hackles  rise!  Tis  no  good  news  for 
us,  methinks." 

"Why  is  that?"  Ebenezer  asked  sharply. 

"They  have  been  waiting  for  their  two  chief  men  to  smuggle  across  the 
Bay,"  McEvoy  said.  "One  is  the  leader  of  the  blacks,  and  the  other's  the 
strongest  of  the  salvage  kings  that  the  Governor  hath  unseated.  That  much 
I  know  from  Bandy  Lou,  that  whispered  to  me  some  days  back  through 
the  wall  of  this  hut.  They've  ne'er  been  reckless  enough  to  sing  so  loud 
before:  I'll  wager  'tis  their  majesties  have  come  to  town,  and  the  circus 
is  ready  to  start." 


[  574  I  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

And  indeed,,  as  the  new  arrivals  filed  into  the  common,  the  villagers  threw 
caution  to  the  winds:  they  took  up  the  chant,  cried  out  wild  cries,  beat 
drums  to  mark  the  rhythm,  and— as  best  the  prisoners  could  judge  from 
sound  alone—commenced  some  vigorous  dance  around  the  fire.  Bertrand 
sucked  his  breath  and  moaned,  and  Ebenezer,  try  as  he  might  to  sustain 
his  courage,  began  to  tremble  involuntarily  in  every  limb.  Not  even  Mc- 
Evoy  could  quite  preserve  his  self-control:  he  fell  to  intoning  oaths  and 
curses  in  a  hissing  whisper,  like  paternosters  recited  with  teeth  on  edge. 
Only  Captain  Cairn  remained  calm.  "'Twere  folly  to  wait  for  their 
wretched  tortures,"  he  declared  soberly.  "We're  all  dead  men  at  the  end 
of  the  chapter  in  any  case;  why  should  we  suffer  ten  times  o'er  for  their 
heathen  pleasure?" 

"What  is't  you  propose,  then?"  Ebenezer  demanded.  "Suicide?  Me- 
thinks  I'd  gladly  take  my  own  life  and  have  done  with't,  if  I  had  a  pistol. 
'Twere  better  than  their  cursed  butcher-block  and  bonfire!" 

"We've  no  means  to  do  the  job  ourselves,"  the  Captain  said.  "But  it 
may  be  still  in  our  hands  to  die  fast  or  a  piece  at  a  time.  If  they  carry  us 
out  bodily  there's  no  hope,  but  if  they  string  us  together  by  the  neck 
and  free  our  feet  to  walk,,  as  they  did  before,  we  must  make  a  run  for't, 
all  together,  and  pray  they'll  stop  us  with  spears  and  arrows." 

"  Twould  never  work,"  McEvoy  scoffed.  "They'd  simply  overhaul  us  and 
fetch  us  back  to  their  carving-knives." 
Bertrand  wailed, 

"Besides,"  McEvoy  added,  "I  am  a  Catholic,  albeit  no  model  parishioner, 
and  I  shan't  destroy  myself  in  any  case." 

"Then  here's  a  better  plan,"  said  the  Captain,  "that  ye  may  help  us  in 
with  no  harm  to  your  faith.  Our  hands  and  feet  are  bound,  but  we  have 
still  the  movement  of  our  knees:  let  Mr.  Cooke's  man  place  his  neck  'twixt 
his  master's  legs,  and  me  place  my  neck  'twixt  yours,  and  we  twain  be 
throttled  without  delay  to  end  our  miseries.  Then  do  ye  the  same  for 
Mr.  Cooke,  when  he  hath  done,  and  thou'rt  left  to  be  murthered  as  ye 
wish  by  the  Indians.  What  say  ye  to  that?" 

"FGod!"  whispered  Ebenezer;  yet  appalled  though  he  was  by  the  old 
man's  proposal,  he  could  scarcely  deny  that  being  strangled  was  far  less 
painful  than  being  emasculated  and  burnt  alive. 

As  it  turned  out,  he  was  not  obliged  to  choose  after  all;  whether  because 
the  new  arrivals  were  not  the  visiting  royalty  from  across  the  Bay  or 
because  the  sacrificial  festivities  were  to  be  saved  until  the  end  of  their 
dark  conclave,  the  celebration  presently  subsided,  and  day  dawned  to  find 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  575  ] 

the  prisoners  still  unmolested.  Too  anxious  to  feel  much  relief,  they  re- 
garded one  another  silently— McEvoy,  Ebenezer  observed,  had  lost  a 
quarter  of  his  weight  and  some  of  his  teeth,  and  had  of  necessity  grown 
a  beard— nor  were  they  ever  again  as  talkative  as  they  had  been  that  first 
night.  The  days  passed— two,  seven,  ten— and  though  the  prisoners  were 
never  once  permitted  out  of  the  hut,  they  could  hear  the  daily-increasing 
activity  in  the  town. 

"Ffafth,  'tis  like  the  Convocation  o'  Cardinals!"  McEvoy  declared. 

"And  God  help  us  when  they've  picked  their  Pope,"  Bertrand  added. 

No  one  mentioned  the  Captain's  proposal  again,  but  it  must  have  been 
on  everyone's  mind  as  it  was  on  Ebenezer's,  for  when  one  early  morning 
they  heard  their  guard  approached  by  some  manner  of  delegation  (to  whose 
stern  inquiries,  delivered  in  exotic  glottal  tongue,  he  responded  with  the 
humble  alacrity  of  subordination),  as  one  man  they  sucked  in  their  breaths 
and  went  rigid. 

"Make  haste!"  the  Captain  urged.  "They've  come  to  fetch  us!" 

"Then  fetch  us  they  shall,"  McEvoy  grumbled.  "I'm  not  a  murtherer." 

Just  then  the  hide-flap  door  of  the  hut  was  thrown  open:  cold  air 
rushed  in,  and  the  dancing  light  of  the  fire,  and  against  the  grey-white 
dawn  they  could  see  the  stiff  black  shapes  of  men, 

"You,  then,  in  the  name  o'  God!"  The  Captain  twisted  towards  Eben- 
ezer, and  his  voice  grew  shrill.  "I  beg  ye  sir;  throttle  me  now,  this  instant, 
ere  they  lay  hands  on  us!  Here,  quickly,  for  the  love  o9  Christ!" 

He  wrenched  himself  across  Bertrand  toward  the  poet's  trembling  knees. 
Ebenezer  had  no  voice  to  say  him  nay;  he  could  only  shake  his  head.  But 
even  had  he  been  both  willing  and  able,  there  was  not  time  to  do  the 
deed:  the  black  silhouettes  closed  in,  bent  over  them;  black  hands  laid 
hold  of  their  ankles  and  legs;  black  voices  chuckled  and  grunted.  One  by 
one  the  terrified  white  men  were  dragged  outside  by  the  heels. 


6:    HIS  FUTURE  AT  STAKE,  THE  POET  REFLECTS  ON  A 
BRACE  OF  SECULAR  MYSTERIES 


THE    COURTYARD    OR    COMMON   ENCLOSED    BY   THE   INDIAN   TOWN   WAS 

patchy  with  thin,  wet  snow,  which  had  also  whitened  the  tops  of  all  the 
mound-shaped  dwellings.  The  air  was  raw  and  saturated,  but  not  bitter 


[576]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

cold;  in  fact,  a  mass  of  quite  temperate  air  had  moved  over  the  Bay,  with 
the  result  that  a  great  fog  enveloped  the  island.  Swirls  of  mist  like  ragged 
spirits  swept  out  of  the  marsh,  given  voice  by  invisible  gulls:  they  bent  over 
the  houses,  writhed  and  brooded  across  the  common,  and  were  blown 
with  a  wild,  falling  cry  toward  the  straits. 

Despite  the  fog  and  the  early  hour,  Ebenezer  could  see  a  great  number 
of  people  all  about,  some  in  Scotch  cloth  and  English  woolens,  but  most  in 
hides  and  furs  and  matchcoats.  The  women  were  making  small  fires  near 
their  huts  to  cook  on  and  preparing  food  for  the  morning  meal;  the  men, 
for  the  most  part,  were  occupied  with  tobacco  and  conversation  around 
several  larger  fires  in  the  common  itself,  Negroes  and  Indians  together:  there 
was  a  rustle  of  general  talk,  as  well  as  much  parleying  by  signs  and  gestures, 
In  the  center  of  the  court  the  little  watch  fire  of  the  night  had  been  so 
fueled  with  resinous  pine  logs  that  its  blaze,  flashing  orange  upon  the  fog, 
seemed  more  ceremonial  than  useful.  The  heat  of  it  had  melted  the  snow 
in  a  sizeable  circle,  about  whose  perimeter  were  ranged  a  solemn  score 
of  dignitaries,  black  and  red— no  doubt  the  various  rebel  chiefs  and  their 
lieutenants;  and  just  outside  the  quadrants  of  their  circle,  four  separate 
parties  of  men  were  raising  ominous  twelve-foot  posts  in  hip-deep  holes. 

When  the  prisoners  were  all  on  their  feet,  a  grinning  Negro  from  the 
deputation  that  had  fetched  them  out  stepped  up  to  McEvoy  and  said  in 
English,  "You  come  to  judgment  now:  no  more  nights  in  there,  ha?"  He 
rolled  his  eyes  towards  the  prison-hut. 

"Thou'rt  a  black  imp  o'  Satan/'  McEvoy  grumbled.  "I  would  ye'd  jumped 
to  the  fishes  with  Dick  Parker!" 

The  Negro— whom  Ebenezer  took  to  be  McEvoy's  erstwhile  companion 
Bandy  Lou— flashed  his  teeth  in  amusement  and  gave  sharp  orders  to  his 
men,  who  cut  the  thongs  from  the  prisoners'  ankles  and  led  them  towards 
the  awful  posts.  The  poet's  knees  began  to  fail;  his  jailers  were  obliged 
to  support  as  well  as  direct  him.  The  hum  of  conversation  on  every  side 
changed  to  a  concerted  murmur,  and  then  died  away;  except  for  tie  myriad 
crackling  fires  the  common  was  silent,  and  dark  faces  regarded  the  white 
men  coldly  as  they  passed.  The  men  at  the  central  fire  turned  round  at 
their  approach,  and  a  much-painted  elder  among  them  nodded  towards 
the  nearest  of  the  posts  just  being  tamped  into  position. 

"You  be  judged  by  three  kings,"  the  smiling  Negro  repeated  to  McEvoy. 
''Others  stay  here/' 

None  of  the  prisoners  spoke.  It  appeared  that  the  dread  triumvirate  was 
not  at  the  fireside  after  all,  for  the  Irishman  was  led  toward  a  larger  spec- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  577  ] 

imen  of  muskrat-house  across  the  common.  Ebenezer  and  Bertrand  were 
bound  each  to  a  post  by  the  ankles  and  wrists;  the  feel  of  his  position 
brought  the  poet  near  to  swooning,  so  clearly  did  it  recall  the  legion  of 
martyred  men.  How  many  millions  had  been  similarly  bound  since  the 
race  began,  and  for  how  many  reasons  put  to  the  unspeakable  pain  of  fire? 
But  he  strove  to  put  by  the  swoon,  in  hopes  of  resummoning  it  when 
he  would  need  it  more  desperately. 

The  Captain,  meanwhile,  had  been  obliged  to  stand  by  while  the  third 
and  fourth  posts  were  being  raised  and  tamped.  He  stood  quietly,  head 
bowed,  as  though  resigned  to  the  horrors  ahead;  his  guards,  absorbed  in 
plumbing  the  massive  posts,  ignored  him.  Suddenly  he  sprang  to  life^ 
leaped  behind  and  away  from  them  and  struck  out  across  the  common. 
A  shout  went  up;  men  scrambled  to  their  feet,  snatched  their  spears,  and 
hurried  after  him.  Ebenezer  craned  his  neck  to  watch,  expecting  to  see 
the  old  man  ran  through  like  a  squab  on  the  spit»  but  the  Indians  held 
back.  The  Captain  ran  for  a  gap  between  two  council-fires,  and  was  faced 
with  a  wall  of  spears  held  at  the  ready;  he  hesitated,  spun  about,  and  was 
confronted  with  a  similar  wall.  This  time,  as  if  abandoning  some  tenuous 
hope  of  escape  and  returning  to  his  original  purpose,  he  thrust  out  his 
chest  and  lunged  straight  for  the  spears;  but  their  bearers  drew  back  and 
merely  blocked  his  way  with  their  arms  and  shafts.  He  wheeled  again, 
his  arms  still  bound  behind,  and  hopped  madly  in  another  direction,  with 
the  same  result.  The  ranks  were  closed  now  in  a  large  circle  around  him, 
and  it  being  quite  clear  that  he  could  not  escape  even  to  the  marsh  (whence, 
to  be  sure,  they  could  have  retrieved  him  easily  enough)  they  began  to 
laugh  at  his  furious  endeavor.  Again  and  again  the  old  man  rushed  at  the 
spears;  Ebenezer  scarce  knew  whether  relief  or  chagrin  was  in  order  as 
each  new  pass  was  thwarted.  At  length,  unable  to  screw  up  his  desperate 
resolve  again,  the  Captain  stood  still  in  the  center  of  the  circle,  gave  a 
wavering  cry,  and  fell.  His  tormentors  dispersed,  still  chuckling;  the  guards 
returned  him  to  the  post,  now  erect  and  ready  to  accommodate  him,  and 
began  piling  twigs  and  branches  at  the  feet  of  all  three  unfortunates. 

His  skin  awash  with  cold  sweat,  Ebenezer  looked  away  and  saw  McEvoy 
reappear  from  the  royal  palace  with  his  smiling  escort.  The  Irishman's  face 
was  winced  up  in  a  curious  expression— whether  anger,  abhorrence,  or  fear, 
Ebenezer  could  not  tell,  but  he  assumed  when  he  saw  his  companion  made 
fast  to  the  one  remaining  post  that  the  curious  "judgment"  had  not  been 
a  pardon. 

However,  he  was  mistaken.  "  Tis  the  Devil's  own  wonder  of  a  happen- 


[  cy8  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

stance!"  McEvoy  cried  over  to  him,  in  a  voice  as  strange  and  twisted  as 
his  expression.  "They  fetched  me  before  their  three  kings  for  sentencing, 
and  two  of  'em  were  scurfy  salvages,  but  the  third  was  my  friend  Dick 
Parker,  the  wight  I  was  chained  in  the  hold  with!  I  thought  he  was  drowned 
and  forgot,  but  i'faith,  he's  the  king  o'  this  pack  o'  black  heathen!  This 
scoundrel  Bandy  Lou  hath  known  it  these  many  days  and  said  naught 
oft;  he  was  Dick  Parker's  chief  lieutenant  back  in  Africa!" 

Ebenezer  was  unable  to  marvel  at  this  coincidence;  indeed,  he  won- 
dered whether  McEvoy  had  not  been  deranged  by  fear.  Could  a  sane 
man  relate  such  bootless  trifles  while  his  pyre  was  a-building  round  his 
feet? 

Only  then  did  he  observe  that  though  his  own  pyre  was  completed,  as 
were  those  of  Bertrand  and  the  senseless  Captain,  not  a  twig  had  been 
laid  at  McEvoy's  post,  nor  did  the  guards  seem  about  to  fetch  any. 

"God  help  me,  Eben!"  the  Irishman  shouted.  "They  mean  to  turn  me 
loose!  Dick  Parker  hath  spared  me!"  His  eyes  ran  with  tears,  but  not  tears 
of  joy.  Ebenezer  thrilled  with  horror.  "As  God  is  my  witness,"  McEvoy 
cried  on,  "I  begged  and  pled  for  ye,  Eben,  by  whatever  friendship  had 
been  'twixt  Dick  Parker  and  myself.  Ye  was  my  brother,  I  told  him,  and 
dear  as  life  to  me;  but  the  others  were  for  burning  the  four  of  us,  and 
'twas  all  Dick  Parker  could  manage  to  spare  me.  As't  is  I  must  watch  ye 
suffer  there  all  this  day  and  tomorrow,  till  their  council's  done,  and  then 
see  ye  burnt!" 

"He  lies!"  Bertrand  yelled  from  his  post  across  the  way.  "The  pimp  hath 
bartered  our  skins  to  save  his  own!" 

"Nay,  I  swear't!"  McEvoy  protested.  The  Negroes  and  Indians  around 
the  central  fire  regarded  the  speakers  in  turn  without  expression;  one  could 
not  tell  whether  they  understood  the  shouted  colloquy  or  not.  "Whatever 
hath  been  betwixt  us  in  the  past,  'tis  all  behind  us;  ye  mustn't  believe  I  hold 
aught  against  ye,  or  biased  your  case  with  Dick  Parker!" 

"I  quite  believe  you,"  Ebenezer  said.  He  had  in  fact  felt  a  moment 
of  wrath  at  McEvoy's  news;  would  he,  after  all,  have  left  London  in  the 
first  place  had  not  McEvoy  betrayed  him  to  his  father?  But  he  soon  over- 
came his  anger,  for  despite  the  extremity  qf  his  position,  or  perhaps  be- 
cause  of  it,  he  was  able  to  see  that  McEvoy  had  only  been  following  his 
principles  honestly,  as  had  Ebenezer  his  own;  one  could  as  easily  blame 
old  Andrew  for  reacting  so  strongly,  Joan  Toast  for  occasioning  the  wager, 
Ben  Oliver  for  proposing  it,  Anna  for  crossing  alone  to  Maryland,  Burlin- 
game  for— among  other  things— persuading  him  to  disembark  in  St.  Mary's, 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  579  ] 

or  Ebenezer  himself,  who  by  any  of  a  hundred  thousand  acts  might  have 
altered  the  direction  of  his  life.  The  whole  history  of  his  twenty-eight  years 
it  was  that  had  brought  him  to  the  present  place  at  the  present  time;  and 
had  not  this  history  taken  its  particular  pattern,  in  large  measure,  from  the 
influence  of  all  the  people  with  whom  he'd  ever  dealt,  and  whose  lives 
in  turn  had  been  shaped  by  the  influence  of  countless  others?  Was  he 
not,  in  short,  bound  to  his  post  not  merely  by  the  sum  of  human  history, 
but  even  by  the  history  of  the  entire  universe,  as  by  a  chain  of  numberless 
links  no  one  of  which  was  more  culpable  than  any  other?  It  seemed  to 
Ebenezer  that  he  was,  and  that  McEvoy  was  not  more  nor  less  to  blame 
than  was  Lord  Baltimore,  for  example,,  who  had  colonized  Maryland,  or 
the  Genoese  adventurer  who  had  discovered  the  New  World  to  the  Old. 

This  conclusion,  which  the  poet  had  reached  more  by  insight  than  by 
casuistical  speculation,  was  followed  by  another,  whose  logic  ran  thus:  The 
point  in  space  and  time  whereto  the  history  of  the  world  had  brought  him 
would  be  nothing  perilous  were  it  not  for  the  hostility  of  the  Indians  and 
Negroes.  But  it  was  their  exploitation  by  the  English  colonists  that  had 
rendered  them  hostile;  that  is  to  say,  by  a  people  whom  the  accidents  of 
history  had  made  in  many  ways  superior— Ebenezer  did  not  doubt  that 
his  captors,  if  circumstances  were  reversed,  would  do  just  what  the  Eng- 
lish were  doing.  To  the  extent,  then,  that  historical  movements  are  ex- 
pressions of  the  will  of  the  people  engaged  in  them,  Ebenezer  was  a  just 
object  for  his  captors'  wrath,,  for  he  belonged,  in  a  deeper  sense  than 
McEvoy  had  intended  in  his  remark  of  some  nights  past,  to  the  class  of 
the  exploiters;  as  an  educated  gentleman  of  the  western  world  he  had 
shared  in  the  fruits  of  his  culture's  power  and  must  therefore  share  what 
guilt  that  power  incurred.  Nor  was  this  the  end  of  his  responsibility: 
for  if  it  was  the  accidents  of  power  and  position  that  made  the  difference 
between  exploiters  and  exploited,  and  not  some  mysterious  specializa- 
tion of  each  group's  psyche,  then  it  was  as  'liuman"  for  the  white  man 
to  enslave  and  dispossess  as  it  was  "human"  for  the  black  and  red  to 
slaughter  on  the  basis  of  color  alone;  the  savage  who  would  put  him 
to  the  torch  anon  was  no  less  his  brother  than  was  the  trader  who  had 
once  enslaved  that  savage.  In  sum,  the  poet  observed,  for  his  secular 
Original  Sin,  though  he  was  to  atone  for  it  in  person,  he  would  exact 
a  kind  of  Vicarious  Retribution;  he  had  committed  a  grievous  crime  against 
himself,  and  it  was  himself  who  soon  would  punish  the  malefactor! 

Grasping  the  pair  of  insights  was  the  labor  of  but  as  many  seconds,  and 
though  they  moved  him  as  had  few  moments  in  his  spiritual  autobiography, 


[  580  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

all  he  said  to  Bertrand  and  McEvoy  was,  "In  any  case,  'tis  too  late  to 
split  the  hairs  of  responsibility.  Look  yonder." 

He  indicated  with  his  brows  the  direction  of  the  hut  from  which  McEvoy 
had  been  lately  escorted.  The  eyes  of  the  assemblage  had  turned  that  way 
as  well,  and  their  conversation  dwindled  to  a  murmur.  The  three  kings 
had  issued  forth  to  render  judgment:  as  best  Ebenezer  could  distinguish 
through  the  mists,  one  was  a  strapping  Negro,  one  an  equally  robust  red 
man,,  and  the  third,  also  an  Indian,  an  aged,  decrepit  fellow  who  moved 
with  a  great  deal  of  difficulty  on  the  arms  of  his  younger  colleagues.  All 
three  were  dressed  elaborately  by  comparison  with  their  subjects:  their 
garments  were  fringed,  tasseled,  and  colorfully  worked  with  shell-beads; 
their  faces  were  striped  and  circled  with  puccoon;  their  necks  hung  with 
bear's  teeth  and  cowries;  the  Indians  wore  headdresses  of  beadwork  and 
turkey  feathers,  while  the  Negro's  was  wrought  of  two  bull's  horns  mounted 
in  fur.  The  two  stalwarts  held  each  in  his  free  hand  a  formidable  bone- 
tipped  javelin;  the  ancient  one  bore  in  his  right  a  sort  of  scepter  or 
ceremonial  staff  topped  with  the  pelt  of  a  muskrat,  and  in  his  left  a  flaming 
and  sputtering  pitch-pine  torch. 

The  pace  made  their  approach  more  somber.  McEvoy  regarded  them 
wide-eyed  over  his  shoulder;  Bertrand  began  to  make  moan  in  rhythmical 
expirations.  Ebenezer  blushed  with  fear;  he  pressed  his  lips  fast,  but  the 
rest  of  his  features  ticked  and  twitched. 

Closest  to  the  triumvirate  was  McEvoy:  they  confronted  him  sternly; 
the  Negro  raised  his  spear  and  made  some  sort  of  pronouncement,  which 
his  subjects  received  with  an  uncertain  murmur,  and  then  the  younger 
of  the  Indian  chiefs  apparently  repeated  it  in  his  tongue,  for  his  statement 
met  with  a  like  response.  Ebenezer  remarked  some  displeasure  in  the  old 
chiefs  face,  and  great  satisfaction  in  the  countenance  of  McEvoy's  Negro 
companion  Bandy  Lou,  who  stood  nearby;  doubtless  the  statement  had 
to  do  with  the  Irishman's  acquittal.  The  party  moved  next  to  the  bearded 
Captain,  who  had  fust  begun  to  stir  and  roll  his  head.  Again  some  sentence 
was  rendered  in  two  languages  with  upraised  spears:  the  old  chiefs  smile 
and  the  assemblage's  shouted  approval  made  its  meaning  clear,  and  the 
poet  shuddered. 

Next  came  Bertrand,  who  turned  his  head  away  and  squinted  shut  his 
eyes.  The  younger  of  the  Indian  kings  regarded  him  coldly,  the  older  with 
malevolent  pleasure  as  he  nodded  to  something  the  Negro  was  leaning 
to  whisper  in  his  ear.  All  eyes  were  on  the  great  black  king,  who  in  both 
of  the  previous  instances  had  passed  sentence  first;  he  ended  his  colloquy 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  581  ] 

with  the  old  man,  lifted  his  javelin,  and  began  his  pronouncement  even 
as  he  raised  his  eyes  to  the  prisoner's  face. 

But  he  stopped  in  mid-sentence  and  rushed  forward  to  turn  Bertrand's 
face  towards  his  own.  Ebenezer's  muscles  tautened:  since  the  Negro  had 
retained  his  spear  but  let  go  the  old  chiefs  arm  most  uncourteously,  the 
poet  rather  expected  to  see  Bertrand  run  through  on  the  instant  for  the 
crime  of  averting  his  head.  Nor  were  his  fears  allayed  when  the  Negro 
gave  a  cry,  snatched  a  bone  knife  from  the  belt  of  a  nearby  lieutenant, 
and  leaped  toward  the  valet  with  the  weapon  held  back  for  striking.  His 
fellow  chiefs  frowned;  the  nearer  spectators  drew  back  in  alarm,  and  their 
consternation  mounted  when,  instead  of  ending  the  prisoner's  life  or  dis- 
membering him  where  he  hung,  the  black  king  sliced  furiously  at  the  thongs 
and  fetters,  kicked  away  the  knee-high  faggots,  and  flung  himself  prostrate 
at  the  reeling  prisoner's  feet! 

"Master  Eben!"  the  valet  bawled,  drawing  back  against  the  post.  The 
old  Indian  chief  barked  shrilly,  and  the  younger  made  what  appeared  to 
be  a  sharp  query,  to  which  the  Negro  king  replied  in  the  Indian  tongue, 
face  down,  his  voice  heavy  with  emotion.  The  common  had  gone  silent 
as  a  church;  awe  showed  in  every  face.  The  Indian  king  frowned  more 
severely  than  ever,  summoned  lieutenants  to  support  his  ancient  colleague, 
and  strode  as  quickly  as  dignity  permitted,  not  toward  Bertrand  but  toward 
the  much-distraught  prisoner  who  had  yet  to  be  confronted  with  his  judg- 
ment. 

"Quassapelagh!" 

The  chief  had  advanced  only  a  pace  or  two  when  Ebenezer  recognized 
—under  the  war  paint,  regali^  and  newly  regained  good  health— the  ailing 
fugitive  of  the  cliffside  cave:  the  deposed  "Anacostin  King"  from  whom 
he  had  first  learned  that  he  was  in  Maryland,  and  to  whom,  despite  Ber- 
trand's  protests,  he  had  given  as  attendant .  .  . 

"Dear  Christ,  now  I  see't!"  he  cried.  "Bertrand!  'Tis  Quassapelagh  and 
Drakepecker!  Thou'rt  rescued,  Bertrand!  Yon  Dick  Parker  of  McEvoy's  is 
your  Drakepecker,  and  here's  Quassapelagh  come  to  save  me!" 

Indeed,  when  the  Indian  had  looked  well  into  Ebenezer's  face,  his  eyes 
lost  their  sternness,  his  mouth  showed  a  trace  of  a  smile,  and  at  his  com- 
mand two  guards  stepped  forward  to  release  the  poet's  bonds. 

"I  set  you  free  and  beg  your  pardon,"  Quassapelagh  said  gravely.  "Tis 
well  no  harm  was  done  the  man  who  saved  Quassapelagh's  life." 

Like  Bertrand,  Ebenezer  was  too  overwhelmed  to  speak,  once  he  was 
freed  from  the  terrible  stake.  His  eyes  welled  with  tears;  he  reeled  and 


[  582  3  THE  SOT-WEEP  FACTOR 

laughed  hoarsely,  shook  his  head,  and  looked  to  McEvoy  as  though  in  dis- 
belief. The  old  chief,  meanwhile,  had  not  ceased  to  rail  and  curse:  he 
apparently  understood  no  more  of  these  marvels  than  did  his  subjects  or 
the  other  two  prisoners,  and  was  growing  more  wrathful  by  the  moment. 
Quassapelagh  bowed  slightly  to  Ebenezer,  suggested  that  the  poet  remain 
where  he  was  for  a  few  minutes  more,  and  returned  to  pacify  the  old  man. 
The  Negro  king  too,  whom  to  everyone's  horror  Bertrand  had  embraced 
most  fervently  upon  realizing  his  identity,  now  disengaged  himself  and 
joined  the  council.  It  was  clear,  from  the  tenor  of  their  discourse,  that 
the  old  chief  objected  strenuously  to  freeing  the  prisoners;  after  a  few  mo- 
ments Quassapelagh  summoned  Ebenezer,  snatched  his  left  hand,  and  mut- 
tered, "The  ring  .  .  .  You  have  the  ring  Quassapelagh  gave  you?" 

The  poet  fished  out  from  his  pocket  the  fishbone  ring,  thanking  Prov- 
idence and  Joan  Toast  that  he  had  exchanged  his  silver  seal  for  it  after  all. 
Quassapelagh  first  showed  the  ring  to  the  old  chief  and  then,  with  some 
half-defiant  proclamation,  lifted  it  high  for  the  crowd  to  view.  At  the  same 
time  Dick  Parker,  or  Drakepecker,  issued  orders  to  Bandy  Lou,  who  stood 
beaming  nearby,  and  all  the  prisoners  except  the  Captain  were  hustled  back 
to  the  jail-hut  before  the  old  man  had  a  chance  to  launch  fresh  protests. 

'Tfaith!"  Ebenezer  laughed  tensely.  'What  a  palace  this  hut  seems  now!" 

On  the  common,  where  the  mists  had  been  brightened  but  not  dispelled 
by  the  rising  sun,  there  was  considerable  commotion.  Peering  between  the 
legs  of  the  guards  outside  their  hut,  Ebenezer  saw  the  three  leaders  move 
off  again  towards  the  building  from  which  they  had  appeared;  the  old  one, 
clearly  by  no  means  pacified,  was  now  supported  by  two  Indians  with 
headgear  similar  to  his  own. 

"  Tis  a  Holy  Writ  miracle!"  cried  McEvoy,  his  eyes  and  mouth  still 
wincing  with  astonishment.  "Nay,  a  miracle  atop  a  miracle!  How  is't  Dick 
Parker  is  alive,  and  knows  ye?  Many,  he  fell  on  his  belly  as  if  your  man 
here  was  a  god!" 

"I  was  no  less,  thank  ye,"  Bertrand  said  proudly,  "and  a  better  parish- 
ioner no  proper  god  could  wish  for!  Hath  he  not  risen  to  the  top  of  the 
heap,  though!  Did  ye  see  him  stand  up  for  me  to  the  old  tyrant,  as  bold 
as  ye  please?" 

For  McEvoy's  benefit  Ebenezer  recounted  the  story  of  their  walking 
the  pirates'  plank,  mistaking  Maryland  for  an  ocean  isle,  freeing  Drake- 
pecker  from  his  bonds,  discovering  the  fugitive  Quassapelagh  ill  of  a  fes- 
tered wound,  and  leaving  the  worshipful  black  man  to  minister  to  his 
needs. 


THE  SOT-WEEP  FACTOR  [  583  ] 

"Twas  for  that  he  gave  us  the  fishbone  rings,  albeit  he  said  naught 
of  their  meaning.  What  doth  it  signify,  and  how  came  a  poor  slave  like 
Drakepecker  to  be  a  king?" 

McEvoy  could  throw  no  light  on  the  meaning  of  the  ring.  "As  for  the 
wight  ye  call  Drakepecker,  though,  he  is  the  same  I  spoke  of  before,  that 
I  called  Dick  Parker.  The  boat  that  spirited  me  off  from  London  took 
him  aboard  in  Carolina  along  with  Bandy  Lou  and  two  score  other  slaves, 
to  sell  in  Maryland.  They  had  all  been  snatched  from  some  African  town 
not  long  before,  and  this  Dick  Parker  was  their  king.  The  first  mate  chained 
him  and  Bandy  Lou  in  the  hold  for  the  same  reason  I  was  there/'  The 
Irishman  grinned.  "Dick  Parker  was  always  after  raising  a  mutiny;  the  mate 
was  all  for  murthering  him,  but  the  captain  knew  he  was  a  king  and  thought 
if  they  could  flog  his  spirit  out,  they  could  use  him  to  keep  the  others  from 
making  trouble.  Twice  a  day  they  laid  the  lash  on  him,  and  he'd  spit  on 
the  sailor  that  tied  him  to  the  foremast  and  spit  on  the  sailor  that  untied 
him  after.  O'er  and  again  I  advised  him,  through  Bandy  Lou,  to  put  by 
his  pride  till  he  was  sold  and  settled,  and  then  escape  and  help  the  others; 
he'd  reply  my  counsel  was  the  best  for  Bandy  Lou  and  the  other  lieutenants, 
but  a  king  that  was  bought  and  sold  was  no  king  at  all.  If  I  declared  no 
dead  king  ever  won  a  battle,  he'd  reply  'twas  not  in  the  lion  to  play  the 
jackal's  part,  and  a  dead  king  could  still  be  a  living  example  to  his  subjects. 
He  gave  orders  to  Bandy  Lou  to  do  as  I  advised,  and  the  next  time  they 
fetched  him  up  for  flogging  he  spat  on  the  mate  himself.  The  captain 
got  Bandy  Lou  to  tell  him  'twas  do  as  they  would  of  him  or  drown,  but 
Dick  Parker  only  spat  at  the  captain  as  well;  'twas  then  they  heaved  him 
o'er  the  side,  bound  hand  and  foot.  Half  the  slaves  were  sold  in  Anne 
Arundel  Town  next  day,  and  the  other  half,  along  with  us  redemptioners, 
in  Oxford  the  day  after  that.  How  the  wight  managed  to  stay  afloat  Til 
never  know." 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head,  remembering  the  stripes  on  the  Negro's  back 
when  they  had  discovered  him  on  the  beach.  "So  now  he's  king  of  the 
runaway  slaves^  and  Quassapelagh  king  of  the  disaffected  salvage  Indians! 
Heav'n  help  the  English  if  they  carry  out  their  plan!" 

"Devil  take  'em,  I  say,"  McEvoy  replied,  "they  have  it  coming."  Both 
he  and  Bertrand  declared  their  intention  to  beg  or  steal  passage  back  to 
London  as  soon  as  possible,  so  that  they  might  wish  the  rebels  success  with- 
out wishing  their  own  ill  fortune.  Ebenezer  had  not  lost  sight  of  his  late 
reflections  at  the  stake;  yet  though  he  could  sympathize  with  the  plight 
of  the  slaves  and  Indians  and  affirm  the  guilt  even  of  white  men  who, 


[  584  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

like  himself,  had  condoned  that,  plight  merely  in  effect,  by  not  protesting 
it,  he  could  by  no  means  relish  the  idea  of  a  wholesale  massacre.  On 
the  contrary,  with  his  two  near-executions  to  dulcify  it,  life  tasted  uncom- 
monly sweet  to  the  poet  fust  then,  and  he  shuddered  at  the  thought  of 
anyone's  being  deprived  of  it. 

"We  must  find  a  way  to  save  the  Captain/'  he  declared.  "He  hath 
less  reason  to  be  here  than  any  of  us,  since  'twas  neither  search  nor  flight 
that  brought  him."  And  he  added,  though  he  quite  understood  the  limita- 
tions of  the  statement,  "If  he  dies,  'tis  I  must  answer  for't,  inasmuch  as 
I  hired  him  to  ferry  me  to  Maiden  and  paid  him  extra  to  leave  at  once 
despite  the  weather  and  the  time  of  day." 

Both  McEvoy  and  the  valet  protested  this  assumption  of  responsibility, 
and  McEvoy  asserted  further  that  though  he  had  every  wish  for  the  old 
man's  safety,  he  was  not  prepared  to  sacrifice  or  even  jeopardize  his  own 
for  it.  "What's  the  virtue  of  trading  our  skins  for  his?  Tis  three  lives  for 
one,  and  the  one  no  nobler  nor  more  important  than  any  of  the  three/' 
But  the  poet  was  by  no  means  comforted  by  this  reasoning,  though  he 
had  at  hand  no  ready  refutation. 

"In  any  case,"  Bertrand  offered,  "  'ids  too  early  for  tears  and  cheers  alike. 
If  Drakepecker  hath  his  way  we  may  all  go  free;  if  not,  we  may  bum  yet/' 
His  companions  agreed,  and  they  fell  to  speculating  on  the  office  and 
influence  of  the  ancient  Indian  who  had  been  so  loath  to  see  them  freed. 
McEvoy  called  in  the  African  named—as  best  their  English  speech  sounds 
could  approximate—Bandy  Lou,  who  replied  to  their  several  questions  with 
a  huge,  invincible  smile  whether  his  information  was  cheering,  distressing, 
or  indifferent 

Who  was  the  old  Indian  king? 

"He  is  the  Tayac  Chicamec,  King  of  the  Ahatchwhoops,  and  for  four* 
and-eighty  summers  an  enemy  to  Englishmen.  This  is  his  island/' 

Upon  Ebenezer's  inquiring  about  the  division  of  power  between  the 
titfee  kings  and  the  jurisdiction  of  each,  Bandy  Lou  replied  that  Quassape- 
lagh  was  a  sort  of  commander-in-chief  of  all  the  disaffected  Indians  on  the 
western  side  of  the  Chesapeake,  Chicamec  held  the  same  post  on  the  East- 
ern Shore,  and  Drepacca  was  the  king  of  the  runaway  Negtoes.  He  went  on 
to  assert  very  candidly  that,  while  in  theory  the  three  were  invested  with 
equal  authority,  it  was  Quassapelagh,  the  Anacostin  King,  who  wielded 
the  greatest  actual  power,  not  only  because  the  chieftains  under  him- 
Ochotoinaquath  of  the  Piscataways,  Tom  Calvert  of  the  Chopticoes,  and 
Maquantah  of  the  Mattawomans,  for  example-were  more  numerous,  in- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  585  ] 

fluential,  and  belligerent  than  were  Chicamec's  lieutenants,  but  also  because 
some  of  the  latter-such  as  the  son  of  the  Emperor  Umacokasimmon, 
Asquas,  whom  Governor  Copley  had  deposed  as  leader  of  the  warlike  Nan- 
ticokes  in  favor  of  the  complaisant  Panquas  and  Annoughtough-were 
more  disposed  to  follow  the  younger,  more  vigorous  Quassapelagh  than 
their  aged  Commander-in-chief.  Moreover,  the  lion's  share  of  potential 
power,  according  to  Bandy  Lou,  was  held  by  Drepacca,  for  although  there 
were  many  more  belligerent  Indians  than  runaway  Negroes,  Quassapelagh's 
authority  was  limited  necessarily  to  the  Province,  and  the  allegiance  of 
his  subjects,  except  for  a  small  group  of  Piscataways,  was  directed  primarily 
to  the  several  tribal  chieftains  and  only  indirectly  to  the  Anacostin  King 
himself.  Drepacca,  on  the  other  hand,  had  in  a  very  short  time  become  the 
direct  and  undisputed  leader  of  every  fugitive  African  in  the  area  and  the  in- 
spiration of  thousands  still  enslaved;  furthermore,  he  had  not  the  obstacles 
of  tribal  geography  and  rival  leadership  to  contend  with:  Negroes  from 
various  African  tribes  were  distributed  indiscriminately  among  the  provinces 
by  the  slave  market,  and  Drepacca,  so  far  as  anyone  knew,  was  the  only 
royalty  among  them.  In  consequence  of  these  facts,  together  with  his  quick 
intelligence  (he  had  learned  the  Piscataway  dialect  in  three  weeks  from 
Quassapelagh),  his  formidable  personal  appearance,  and  the  advantage  his 
being  neither  white  nor  Indian  gave  him  in  negotiations  with  the  French 
and  the  northern  nations,  the  sphere  of  Drepacca's  influence  grew  daily 
more  extensive  and  might  well  encompass  soon  the  entire  Negro  popula- 
tion of  America,  whose  number  increased  with  every  ship  from  the  western 
coast  of  Africa.  One  guessed,  from  the  unbounded  pride  in  his  voice,  that 
Bandy  Lou  had  already  crowned  his  master  Emperor  of  America.  Ebenezer 
shivered. 

"More  power  to  him,"  McEvoy  said  grimly.  "If  Dick  Parkefs  as  strong 
as  all  that,  we've  naught  to  fear  from  this  Tayac  Chuckaluck,  or  Chicken- 
neck,  or  whatever.  Wouldn't  ye  say  so,  Bandy  Lou?  Tis  a  brace  of  big 
men  against  one  little  one." 

Ah,  now,  the  smiling  Negro  cautioned,  things  were  not  so  altogether 
simple  as  that,  for  while  Chicamec  held  in  truth  a  great  deal  less  power, 
actual  or  potential,  than  did  either  of  his  confederates,  he  was  known  to 
Indians  all  up  and  down  the  provinces  as  an  ancient  foe  of  the  white 
man:  he  was  virtually  a  legend  among  them;  his  name  for  three  decades 
had  been  synonymous  with  uncompromising  resistance;  and  in  addition 
his  little  town  of  Ahatchwhoops  was  the  hardest  core  of  armed  and  organ- 
ized English-haters  in  the  Province^  and  his  island  the  safest  and  most 


[  586  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

nearly  central  location  anyone  knew  of  for  a  general  headquarters.  In  short, 
though  but  a  figurehead,  he  was  an  extremely  valuable  one,  and  his  col- 
leagues deferred  to  him  in  all  but  the  most  important  matters  of  policy- 
the  more  readily  since  nine-tenths  of  the  rebels'  power  was  in  their  hands. 

"Ffaithr  cried  Bertrand.  "D'ye  mean  they  might  let  him  burn  us  after 
all?" 

"I  do  hope  not/'  said  Bandy  Lou  agreeably.  One  of  the  other  guards 
called  to  him  in  dialect  from  outside,  and  he  added,  his  smile  unchanged 
in  magnitude  or  character:  "Come  now,  and  we  shall  learn." 


7:    HOW  THE  AHATCHWHOOPS  DOE  CHOOSE  A  KING 
OVER  THEM 


FOR  THE   SECOND  TIME   THAT   MORNING,   THEN,   EBENEZER,    BERTRAND, 

and  McEvoy  were  escorted  out  onto  the  misty  common.  Though  there  was 
light  aplenty  now,  the  sky  remained  overcast,  and  the  foggy  salt  marsh 
scarcely  less  gloomy  than  before.  The  cooking  fires  were  out,  the  women 
occupied  with  various  housekeeping  chores,  and  most  of  the  men,  presum- 
ably, out  on  the  marshes  and  waterways  replenishing  the  supply  of  seafood 
and  wildfowl.  A  few  dozen,  whom  Ebenezer  took  to  be  minor  chieftains 
and  their  lieutenants,  still  sat  with  their  pipes  about  the  larger  council-fires, 
engaged  in  serious  debate;  it  was  not  difficult  to  guess,  from  the  silent, 
stony  countenances  that  followed  the  prisoners'  march  across  the  common, 
what  had  been  the  subject  of  their  discussion. 

Less  apprehensive  than  before,  the  poet  was  able  to  look  about  him 
with  greater  interest  and  detachment.  He  remarked,  for  example,  that  the 
village  was  considerably  larger  than  he  had  previously  estimated:  the 
muskrat-house  dwellings  numbered  more  nearly  three  hundred  than  one 
hundred,  and  work-parties  of  Negroes  were  constructing  new  ones,  no  doubt 
for  their  own  accommodation,  around  the  whole  periphery  of  the  town. 
Indeed,  the  supply  of  high  ground  was  virtually  exhausted,  and  the  builders 
were  obliged  to  resort  to  various  expedients;  at  one  edge  of  the  village 
was  a  flat-topped  mountain  of  oystershells— piled  up,  one  gathered,  by  gen- 
erations of  Ahatchwhoops  in  the  days  before  building  lots  were  at  such 
a  premium— which  the  Negroes  were  busily  shoveling  into  the  adjacent 
both  to  create  nevy  dry  ground  and  to  clear  the  old;  in  other  places 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  587  ] 

the  huts  were  being  erected  on  low  pilings  in  the  marsh  itself,  a  curious 
combining  of  African  and  Indian  architectures.  Again,  the  poet  observed 
for  the  first  time  the  disproportion  of  sexes  in  the  population:  even  allowing 
for  the  exaggeration  of  fear,  he  judged  that  nearly  a  thousand  men  had 
thronged  the  common  that  morning— seven  hundred  at  the  very  least,  of 
whom  surely  no  more  than  two  hundred  had  arrived  with  Quassapelagh 
and  Drepacca-— whereas  the  women,  unless  great  numbers  of  them  had  been 
granted  the  unlikely  privilege  of  sleeping  late  into  the  morning,  could  be 
counted  more  easily  in  dozens  than  in  hundreds.  Yet  there  seemed  to  be 
no  shortage  of  children;  indeed,  the  spaces  between  the  huts  fairly  swarmed 
with  little  savages,  whose  great  number  and  wildly  various  pigmentation 
suggested  to  Ebenezer  not  only  polyandry  but  a  cultural  alliance  in  spheres 
more  intimate  than  either  politics  or  architecture. 

This  time  the  party  did  not  stop  at  the  stakes,  but  proceeded  directly  to 
the  royal  hut  on  the  opposite  side  from  the  jail.  To  the  old  Captain,  who 
regarded  them  as  sullenly  from  his  stake  as  did  the  chieftains  from  their 
councils,  Ebenezer  called,  "Never  fear,  old  man,  we  shan't  betray  you. 
'Tis  all  of  us  or  none." 

"In  a  pig's  arse,"  muttered  Bertrand  beside  him,  and  McEvoy  added 
flatly,  "Ye  may  stake  your  own  fortunes  where  ye  please,  but  not  McEvoy's. 
If  he  dies  on  my  account  Til  mourn  him  sorely^  but  if  I  die  on  his  account 
I'll  hate  his  guts/*  As  for  the  Captain  himself,  either  he  did  not  hear  the 
poet's  encouragement,  or  was  too  unhinged  by  fear  to  comprehend  it,  or 
simply  discounted  it  as  so  much  empty  talk,  for  his  expression  remained 
unchanged. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  royal  hut  Bandy  Lou  said  with  his  great  smile, 
"We  stop  here.  You  go  there/'  and  pointed  to  the  hide-flap  doorway.  The 
prisoners  hesitated,  each  reluctant  to  take  the  initiative,  and  then  Ebenezer, 
his  lantern  jaw  clenched  tight,  pushed  the  flap  aside  and  led  them  in. 

Except  for  its  size  and  the  more  numerous  hides  which  served  as  rugs 
and  wall-hangings  alike,  Chicamec's  palace  was  little  different  from  his 
jail.  Along  the  rear  wall  stood  a  line  of  guards,  spears  in  hand.  A  small 
fire  burned  in  a  circle  of  rocks  in  the  center  of  the  floor;  behind  it,  tight- 
lipped  and  evil-eyed,  Sat  the  wrinkled  old  king  himself,  flanked  by  his  two 
unsmiling  confederates.  The  Englishmen  faced  them  uneasily,  uncertain 
whether  to  sit  or  remain  standing,  bow  or  stand  still,  speak  or  be  silent. 
In  the  absence  of  Bandy  Lou,  Ebenezer  looked  to  Quassapelagh  for  in- 
structions, but  it  was  Drepacca  who  addressed  them,  apparently  having 
added  a  fluency  in  English  to  the  catalogue  of  his  assets. 


[  r88  ]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"It  is  the  wish  of  Drepacca,"  he  declared  sternly,  "that  the  four  white 
men  go  free;  or  that,  if  one  must  die,  it  be  the  old  man;  or  that,  if  only 
one  may  live,  it  be  one  of  the  two  who  saved  Drepacca's  life/' 

McEvoy  scowled;  Ebenezer  and  Bertrand  avoided  each  other's  eyes. 

"It  is  the  wish  of  Quassapelagh,"  Drepacca  resumed,  "that  the  old  man 
and  the  red-haired  singer  die,  and  you  twain  be  spared;  or  that,  if  only 
one  may  live,  it  be  the  tall  one  who  still  wears  the  Ring  of  Brotherhood/' 

"I  say!"  McEvoy  protested;  Bertrand's  face  fell.  A  guard  lowered  his 
spear  to  the  ready,  and  the  Irishman  said  no  more. 

"It  is  the  wish  of  Chicamec,"  continued  the  African  king,  "that  every 
man  of  white  skin  on  the  face  of  the  earth  be  deprived  of  his  privy  member 
and  put  to  the  spear.  But  he  allows  that  the  tall  one  is  a  brother  of  Quas- 
sapelagh  and  must  be  spared/7  He  looked  at  Bertrand,  and  though  neither 
his  tone  nor  his  expression  lost  its  sternness,  he  said,  "I  regret  that  you 
have  lost  Quassapelagh's  ring,  and  that  I  once  knelt  to  you  as  a  god 
instead  of  making  you  my  brother  in  the  manner  of  my  people.  But  I  have 
told  Chicamec  that  you  and  the  tall  one  saved  my  life,  and  that  who  kills 
you  must  kill  Drepacca  first.  Chicamec  has  made  no  answer  to  this,  and 
so  you  will  go  free— mind  you  do  not  smile,  or  he  will  guess  my  words  and 
strike  you  dead  at  any  cost/' 

To  McEvoy  he  said,  "You  are  my  friend  and  the  friend  of  Banddu, 
and  I  would  not  see  you  die.  But  the  anger  of  Chicamec  is  great,  and  he 
grants  brotherhood  only  to  those  who  have  saved  the  life  of  one  of  us. 
You  must  bid  your  friends  farewell/' 

"Nay,  'sheart!"  McEvoy  cried;  the  guard  moved  closer,  and  Chicamec's 
eyes  grew  dark.  "What  I  mean,"  McEvoy  continued  in  a  calmer  voice,  "if 
thou'rt  such  a  friend  as  ye  claim,  and  have  such  a  gang  as  Bandy  Lou 
says  ye  have  behind  ye,  why  is't  ye  let  this  bloody  old  flitch  be  judge  and 
jury?  Turn  us  all  loose,  and  be  damned  to  him!" 

Quassapelagh,  whose  frown  had  deepened  at  the  Irishman's  choice  of 
words,  spoke  up  in  reply.  "Quassapelagh  and  Drepacca  are  strong,  but  our 
strength  is  not  on  the  island  of  Chicamec.  If  the  Ahatchwhoops  fight  the 
people  of  Drepacca,  our  cause  will  lose  a  mighty  ally  and  a  mighty  king. 
Chicamec  will  not  make  war  to  kill  brothers  of  Drepacca  and  Quassapelagh, 
but  to  kill  any  other  white  man,  Chicamec  will  make  war.  You  must  die." 

'Then  so  must  I!"  Ebenezer  said  suddenly.  His  brow  furrowed  and  un- 
terowed  at  a  great  rate,  his  hands  twitched  about,  and  his  nose  was  a 
thing  alive.  Quassapelagh  and  Drepacca  turned  to  him  with  surprise;  Ber- 
trand and  McEvoy  with  incredulity.  "Either  the  four  of  us  will  go  free, 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  589  ] 

or  the  four  of  us  will  die!"  declared  the  poet.  "It  is  my  fault  these  men 
are  here,  and  I  shan't  permit  myself  to  be  saved  without  all  three  of  them/' 
He  looked  accusingly  at  Drepacca.  "Perhaps  Drepacca  doth  not  defend 
his  own,  but  Eben  Cooke  doth,  friends  or  no." 

"I  beg  my  brother  to  think  again/7  Quassapelagh  said,  maintaining  his 
stern  composure  for  Chicamec's  benefit  "If  I  must,  I  shall  strike  you  sense- 
less to  spare  your  life." 

But  Ebenezer  had  apparently  foreseen  this  possibility.  "Not  a  bit  oft," 
he  replied  at  once,  his  voice  exhilarated  by  the  rashness  of  his  move.  "Not 
a  bit  oft,  dear  Quassapelagh;  the  moment  you  say  even  one  of  us  must 
die  I'll  leap  and  throttle  Chicamec  yonder,  and  his  bullies  will  spear  me 
like  a  pincushion.  Nay,  don't  warn  'em  off,  or  I'll  spring  this  instant." 

"F faith,  Eben!"  cried  McEvoy.  "Save  yourself;  there's  naught  else  for't!" 

"Our  friend  speaks  wisely  as  well  as  generously,"  Drepacca  added.  "Do 
not  throw  four  lives  away  instead  of  two." 

"Say  no  more  on't!"  Ebenezer  ordered  briskly.  His  face  was  flushed 
and  his  voice  uneven,  and  his  heart  pounded  hot  blood  through  his  limbs. 
"Will  ye  spare  your  brother's  people  or  put  him  to  the  spear?  Yea  me 
or  nay  me,  and  have  done  with'tl"  He  swayed  on  his  feet,  arms  swinging 
free,  as  if  ready  to  make  good  his  threat.  Chicamec  seemed  to  sense  trouble; 
his  glance  sent  two  guards  a  step  closer  with  upraised  spears.  Drepacca  and 
Quassapelagh  exchanged  uncertain  flickers  of  their  eyes. 

"What,  no  answer,  brothers?"  The  poet's  voice  grew  shrill.  "Adieu,  then, 
Brother  Quassapelagh!  Good  luck  to  you,  and  bad  luck  to  your  murtherous 
schemes!  Adieu,  Brother  Drepacca,  adieu,  adieu!  Tis  a  pity  you  ne'er  met 
my  friend  Henry  Burlingame:  you  twain  would  get  on  famously!" 

He  went  so  far  as  actually  to  cock  his  muscles  for  the  leap  across  the 
fire,  and  paused  only  because  Chicamec  caught  up  the  name  Henry  Bur- 
lingame and  unleashed  a  torrent  of  interrogation  at  Quassapelagh,  in  which 
the  name  was  repeated  several  times. 

"Wait,  brother!"  Quassapelagh  called  sharply,  and  attended  the  rest  of 
his  elder  colleague's  excited  query  while  Ebenezer,  the  moment  of  his 
courage  past?,  reeled  and  sweated  in  his  stance. 

"The  Tayac  Chicamec  believes  you  spoke  a  certain  name  just  then,  and 
would  have  you  speak  it  another  time." 

"A  name?  Aye,  'twas  Henry  Burlingame!"  Ebenezer  laughed  like  one 
deranged  and  leaned  over  toward  the  old  king,  on  whose  face  was  the 
piercing,  great-eyed  frown  of  an  osprey  or  fishhawk.  "Henry  Burlingpme!" 
he  shouted  again,  and  tears  dropped  down  his  cheeks.  "You've  heard  of 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

him,  have  you,  murtherer?  Or  is  it  thou'rt  Burlingame  in  disguise,  and 
here's  another  of  thy  famous  pranks?"  Hysteria  brought  him  to  the  edge 
of  a  swoon;  his  jaw  slacked  open,  and  he  was  obliged  to  sit  heavily  on 
the  ground  before  he  fell. 

Another  sharp  query  from  Chicamec. 

"Who  is  this  Henry  Burlingame?"  translated  the  Anacostm  King.  "A 
friend  of  yours?" 

Ebenezer  nodded  affirmatively,  unable  to  speak. 

"One  of  these  here?"  Quassapelagh  asked.  "No?  In  the  white  man's  towns, 
then?" 

The  affirmative  brought  more  excited  Indian-talk  from  old  Chicamec, 
in  reply  to  which,  when  it  had  been  translated  for  his  benefit,  Ebenezer  ex- 
plained that  Burlingame  was  his  former  teacher,  a  man  of  some  forty  sum- 
mers by  his  own  best  guess,  made  in  ignorance  of  his  actual  birth  date^ 
birthplace,  and  parentage. 

One  last  inquiry  Chicamec  made,  without  recourse  to  language:  his 
whole  frame  shaking  with  consternation,  he  fetched  a  charred  stick  out  of 
the  fire,  drew  with  it  upon  a  clean  deerhide  mat  the  symbol  III,  and  raised 
his  terrible  questioning  stare  to  the  poet  again. 

"Ay,  that's  the  one,"  Ebenezer  sighed,  too  weary  in  spirit  to  share  the 
troubled  surprise  of  the  others.  "Henry  Burlingame  the  Third."  And  then, 
"I  say,  Quassapelagh,  how  is't  he  knows  my  Henry?"  For  it  had  only  just 
occurred  to  him  that  in  all  his  tutor's  years  of  adventure  and  intrigue,  it 
had  been  Burlingame's  policy  never  to  employ  the  name  he  was  raised 
by.  The  question  was  duly  translated,  but  instead  of  answering  directly, 
the  ancient  Indian— the  malevolence  of  whose  countenance  was  supplanted 
altogether  by  fierce  astonishment— directed  two  guards  to  fetch  a  carved 
and  decorated  chest  from  one  end  of  the  hut  and  place  it  directly  before 
the  bewildered  poet. 

"The  Tayac  Chicamec  bids  you  open  the  chest,"  said  Drepacca. 

Ebenezer  did  so,  not  knowing  what  new  marvels  he  would  find,  and 
was  surprised  to  see  nothing  evidently  breathtaking  among  the  contents, 
which  so  far  as  he  could  discern  without  rummaging  about,  tonsisted  of 
a  number  of  black  garments  (whose  obviously  English  manufacture  led 
him  to  observe  that  the  little  chest  itself,  beneath  its  Indian  decoration, 
was  the  sort  used  by  seamen  and  travelers,  not  by  savages),  four  corked 
glass  bottles  of  what  seemed  to  be  nothing  but  water,  and  on  top  of  all 
what  looked  like  an  old  octavo  notebook,  bound  in  stained  and  battered 
calf. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  59*  ] 

Chicamec  spoke  through  the  Anacostin  King. 

"There  is  a- — "  Quassapelagh  looked  to  Drepacca  for  assistance  with 
the  translation. 

"Boo&,"  the  African  said.  "A  book,  there  on  the  top/* 

"Book,"  Quassapelagh  repeated.  "Chicamec  bids  my  foolhardy  brother 
open  the  book  and  read  its  signs."  And  he  added  in  the  same  translator's 
tone,  "It  is  the  hope  of  Quassapelagh  that  my  brother  will  read  some 
charm  therein  to  cure  his  madness." 

The  poet  picked  up  the  volume  as  directed,  whereupon  the  line  of  guards 
behind  Chicamec  fell  as  one  man  to  their  knees,  as  though  before  some 
holy  relic.  But  Ebenezer  found  it  to  be  in  fact  a  species  of  English  manu- 
script-book, penned  in  the  regular  calligraphy  of  a  gentleman,  but  with 
ink  too  crusty  and  crude  to  be  European.  It  bore  on  the  front  page  the 
unassuming  title  How  the  Ahatchwhoops  Doe  Choose  a  King  Over  Them 
and  commenced  with  what  appeared  on  quick  scanning  to  be  a  description 
of  the  Dorchester  marshes,  perhaps  the  same  island  on  which  the  tribe 
now  lived. 

"  Tis  most  intriguing,  I  concede,"  the  poet  said  impatiently  to  Quassape- 
lagh "but  i'faith,  this  is  no  time  .  .  .  i'Christ,  now  .  .  ."  He  interrupted 
himself  to.  reread,  incredulously,  the  opening  line— Being  then  our  armes 
bownd,  and  led  like  kine  to  the  Salvage  towne,  some  miles  inland,  I  had 
leisure  to  remark  the  cauntrie-side,  through  wch  we  traveled— and  em- 
barrassment, apprehension,  and  all  gave  way  to  the  shock  of  recognition. 

"John  Smith's  Secret  Histonef9  he  exclaimed.  "'Sheart,  then  'twas  no 
coincidence  .  .  ."  He  was  thinking  of  the  Straits  of  Limbo,  but  his  eyes 
had  moved  already  to  the  next  passages  of  the  Hiistorie;  his  jaw  dropped 
lower,  and  his  sentence  was  destined  never  to  be  completed,  for  the  sub- 
stance of  the  manuscript,  and  more  especially  of  the  Tayac  Chicamec's 
tale  that  followed  after,  were  unquestionably  as  amazing  as  anything  in 
Ebenezer's  by  no  means  uneventful  life. 

For  the  benefit  of  his  mystified  companions  he  read  aloud  as  follows: 

"It  doth  in  sooth  transcend  the  power  of  my.  pen,  or  of  my  fande,  to  relate  the 
aspect  of  this  place,  so  forsaken  &  desolate  &  ill-appearing  withal;  a  sink-hole  it 
is,  all  marshie  and  gone  to  swamp^  Water  standeth  hereabouts  in  lakes  &  pooks, 
forsooth  there  is  more  water  then  drie  land,  but  most  of  the  grownd  is  a  mixture 
of  the  twain,  for  that  the  tyde  doth  rise  &  fdl,  covering  &  discovering  grand 
ftatts  of  mud  thereby,  and  Isles  bearing  naught  but  greene  reedes  &  pine-scrubb. 
When  that  the  tyde  runneth  out,  smdtte  pooles  remaineth  everiewhere,  the  w°* 
do  straightway  sower  &  engender  in  there  slyme  more  meskitoes,  then  there  are 
beades  in  a  nunnerie,  and  each  meskitoe  hungrie  as  a  priest.  Add  thereto,  the 


[  592  I  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOK 

entire  countrie  is  flatt,  and  most  belowe  the  level  of  the  sea,  so  that  the  eye  doth 
see  this  drearie  land-scape  endlesslie  on  everie  hand;  the  aire  is  wett  &  noisome 
to  the  lights;  the  grownd  giveth  'way  beneathe  the  foot;  and  the  'water  is  too 
fowle  &  brynie  to  drink.  It  is  forsooth  Earths  uglie  fundament.,  a  place  not  fftt 
for  any  English  man,  and  I  here  venture,  no  matter  how  that  the  countrie  neare 
to  hand,  such  as  our  owne  Virginia,  doth  prosper  in  yeers  to  come,  yet  mil 
no  person  but  a  Salvage  ever  inhabit  this  place  through  w°h  we  march' d,  except 
he  be  a  bloudie  fook,  or  other  manner  of  ass. 

"As  for  those  same  Salvages,  that  had  us  prisoner  (thanks  to  the  idiocie  of 
my  Nemesis  &  rivdl  L*  EurUngame,  that  fatt  clott-pott,  as  I  have  earlier  dis- 
cryb'd) ,  they  -were  a  fitt  reflection  of  there  countrie,  being  more  smalle  in  stature 
&  meane  in  appearance,  then  those  others  we  had  incounter*d  .  .  .  ." 

Ebenezer  looked  up  uncertainly  from  his  reading,  but  the  faces  of 
Quassapelagh  and  Drepacca  showed  no  reaction  to  the  words. 

"Moreover"  he  read  on,  uthey  seem'd  less  wont  to  speake,  for  that,  upon  my 
enquiring  of  them,  What  nation  were  they?  my  captor  hard  by  responded  mere- 
lie,  Ahatchwhoop.  W°*  signifyeth,  in  the  tongue  of  Powhatans  people,  that 
foule  aire,  that  riseth  on  a  mans  stomacke,  after  he  hath  eate  a  surfitt  of  food, 
andlc*  not  determine,  whether  my  Salvage  designed  to  answer  my  querie,  or 
meant  thereby  an  insult,  or  other  like  barbaritie;  he  w*  saye  no  more.  None  the 
less  I  was  pleas' d,  that  they  spoke  a  tongue  resembling  Powhatans,  for  that  were  I 
able  to  converse  with  them,  so  much  greater  was  our  chance  of  slipping  there 
halter.  For  dh  there  silence,  they  did  use  us  civillie,  and  harm'd  not  any  of 
our  companie,  while  that  we  march'd.  I  reflected,  that  did  they  meane  to  kill 
us,  they  had  done  so  lightlie  upon  the  shoar  whereon  we  were  ambuscado'd, 
but  they  did  not  Verilie,  they  cd  be  sparing  of  our  lives,  onelie  to  take  them 
anon.  But  to  dye  on  the  morrowe,  is  better  by  a  daye  then  to  dye  now,  and 
therefor  I  did  breathe  easier,  while  keeping  still  dert  for  a  meanes  of  escaping 
in\urie  at  there  hands. 

"At  length  we  arriv'd  at  there  town,  the  w°*  was  the  rudest  I  had  yet  seene, 
being  little  save  a  dozen  hovells  of  sticks  &  mudd,  thrown  up  on  a  patch  of 
dne  grownd,  that  rose  a  hand  or  two  from  the  swamp.  At  our  approach,  eight  or 
tenne  more  Salvages  issu'd  from  the  hutts,  agd  and  feeble  men  in  the  mayn, 
<*nd  with  them  the  women  of  the  trybe,  about  15  in  number,  and  uglie  as  the 
Devill  Also,  a  host  of  scurvie  doggs,  that  snapp'd  &  bitt  at  us  from  everie  quar- 
ter. ^ 

,  "One  great  fatt  Salvage  there  was,  who  coming  from  a  hutt,  did  greet  the 
leader  of  those  that  led  us  thither,  with  a  long  harangue,  the  summe  whereof,  as 
L£l«s™p  #,  was,  that  he  was  no  whitt  pleas' d  at  our  being  fetch*  d  to  the  towne. 
Whereto  the  leader  of  our  captors  (a  smalle  Salvage,  but  lowd  of  mawth) 
reply' d,  that  the  speaker  was  not  yet  Werowance,  w°*  is  to  say,  King,  and  ought 
therefore  to  hold  his  peece  untiU  that  the  contest  was  done.  That  he  had  captur'd 
the  white-skinn'd  men,  our  selves,  whom  he  took  to  be  Susquehannocks,  to 
m  the  contest,  the  Susquehannocks  being  greate  workers  of  wonders,  and 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  593  1 

famous  warriors.  Now,  I  knewe  not  what  was  the  contest  thus  spoken  of,  nor 
who  was  the  fatt  Salvage,  nor  yet  the  smalle  one  our  c'aptor.  But  I  had  heard 
telle,  from  King  Hicktopeake,  brother  of  Debedeavon  the  Laughing  King  of 
Accomack,  of  those  same  Susquehannocks,  to  witt:  that  they  were  a  great  nation 
far  to  the  North,  neare  to  the  head  of  that  vast  Bay*  whereon  we  sayl'd.  That 
they  were  much  fear'd  by  the  other  Salvages,  as  warriors  &  feerce  hunters.  It 
seem'd  to  me  not  a  some  thing,  then,  to  be  mistaken  for  a  Susquehannock  by 
our  captors,  and  so  did  not  trouble  my  selfe  to  undeceive  them. 

"More  argument  ensuyd,  betwixt  the  Salvages,  they  being  each  readie  to  give 
commands  to  the  other,  and  each  loath  to  obey  any,  so  that  I  wonder1 d,  Where 
was  there  King?  For  it  seem'd  to  me,  these  heathen  had  either  two  Kings,  or 
none  at  all  Just  then,  a  Salvage  wench  did  appeare,  from  out  a  hutt,  and  bearing 
a  vessell  of  water  upon  her  head,  did  came  it  across  to  another  hutt  hard  by. 
She  was,  I  sweare,  the  comliest  Salvage  ever  I  saw,  slight  of  stature,  and  prettie 
of  face  &  forme,  and  being  uncloth'd  above  the  waist,  her  bubbs  did  lift  most 
fetchinglie  what  tyme  she  rated  her  armes  to  steadie  the  vessell  At  her  appear- 
ance, the  two  Salvages  gave  over  there  debate,  and  gaz'd  after,  as  did  my  selfe 
&  all  my  partie,  for  that  she  was  of  such  surpassing  beautie.  Directlie  she  was 
gone,  they  fell  againe  to  quarrelling,  over  where  we  s™  be  lodg'd,  and  under  what 
guard,  and  w*  have  leapt  upon  each  other,  had  I  not  interfear'd,  and  speaking  in 
Powhatans  tongue,  declared  my  selfe  C***  J™  Smith  of  Virginia,  and  ojfer'd 
them,  that  we  returne  to  our  barge,  there  being  no  handle  place  for  us  to  sleep, 
and  make  our  waye  in  peece  as  best  we  might.  We  had  no  wishe,  said  1,  to  im- 
pose upon  there  hospitallitie,  or  trouble  them  in  the  matter  of  bedd  &  board. 
This  I  spoke  in  jest,  knowing  full  weE,  we  were  where  we  were  not  by  there  in- 
vitation, but  as  haplesse  prisoners.  The  Salvages  were  amaz'd,  that  I  spoke  a 
tongue  w^  they  cd  grasp,  and  I,  in  turn,  was  much  surpriz'd,  when  that  the  fatt 
Salvage,  so  far  from  shewing  displeasure  at  my  proposall,  took  it  up  on  the 
instant,  and  w*  have  us  begone.  But  the  other  wd  have  none  of  it,  we  must  needs 
staye  for  the  contest  on  the  morrowe.  More  dispute  follow' d,  and  at  last  we  were 
put  all  in  a  hutt,  with  scarce  room  to  lie  flatt,  and  the  smalte  Salvage  him  selfe, 
with  divers  of  his  troup,  sat  guard. 

"My  companie,  understanding  naught  of  all  this  discourse,  were  greatiie  out 
of  sorts,  and  grows' d  &  compleyn'd  much,  for  that  they  knewe  not  what  wd 
be  our  fate,  or  whether  we  $*"*  live  or  dye.  Add  to  w0*,  we  had  been  taken  in  the 
morning,  and  it  was  then  twylight,  but  naught  had  we  been  given  to  eate,  nor 
had  any  of  the  Salvages  eat  food,  all  the  daye.  Methought  this  was  passing  queere, 
for  that  the  meanest  of  gaolers  is  seldom  that  crueU,  that  he  will  not  give  his 
charges  some  thing  wherewith  to  staye  there  grumbling  gutts.  Despite  w*h,  jf 
was  little  troubl'd  in  my  owne  mind,  inasmuch  as  from  what  I  had  learnt,  in 
converse  with  our  captors,  our  straits  were  at  worst  uncertain.  Our  keepers  seem'd 
scarce  to  know  them  selves  what  to  doe  with  us,  and  there  confusion  1  mark'd 
as  a  good  signe,  together  with  the  faction  &  dispute  vP*  I  had  witnessed.  For 
where  faction  is  amongst  the  enemie,  the  battle  is  halfe  won.  Therefore  I  made 
my  men  a  little  speach,  intreating  them  to  be  of  good  heart,  and  comport  them 
selves  as  men.  Big  my  intreaties  were  in  vaine,  they  wish'd  them  selves  back  in 


[  594  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Jamestowne,  or  better  in  London,  and  curs' d  the  voiage  that  had  brought  them 
hither.  Burlingame,  as  I  had  foreseen,  'was  lowdest  in  his  compleynts,  for  all  it 
was  he,  in  my  estimation,  that  by  his  cowardice  had  brought  us  to  this  passe.  I 
had  no  love  for  him,  that  had  done  dl  in  his  power  to  thwart  me  &  my  explora- 
tions, and  stir  up  unrest  against  me  in  Jamestowne.  I  heartilie  wish'd  him  in 
London,  or  at  the  bottom  of  the  Baye,  and  told  him  as  much.  He  onelie  glar'd 
at  me,  and  spoke  no  more,  but  I  guess9 d  it  was  in  his  mind,  shd  I  taunt  him 
farther,  to  tell  the  companie  some  scurvie  lie,  about  Pocahontas  &  my  selfe, 
as  he  had  oft  threaten' d,  and  so  I  left  him  done.  Yet  I  did  reflect,  that  such  a 
state  cd  not  persist,  but  must  be  remedy9  d  soon,  for  that  faction  doth  lead  stitt 
to  mutinie,  and  without  my  guidance,  I  was  certain  dl  wd  perish  at  the  hands  of 
the  Sdvages,  in  there  follie  &  ignorance,  ere  they  regayn'd  Jamestowne  by  them 


"Greatlie  tyr*d  from  the  dayes  adventures,  and  weak  for  want  of  food,  they 
all  were  soon  asleep,  maugre  there  feares  &  compleynts,  and  left  to  my  selfe,  I 
undertook  to  ingage  our  guard>  the  smdle  lowd  Sdvage,  in  conversation,  pur- 
posing to  learn  more  of  our  fate,  and  peradventure  to  gaym  his  favour,  or  to 
promote  the  faction  I  had  observed. 

"This  tyme  my  luck  was  better  than  theretofore;  whether  by  reason  that  onelie 
the  twain  of  us  were  awake,  or  that  he  sought  to  allie  me  to  his  cause,  the  Sdvage 
spake  readilie  &  cordiallie  in  answer  to  my  queries.  I  ask'd  him,  What  was  his 
name?  to  wc*  he  reply' d,  that  it  was  Wepenter,  woh  is  to  say,  a  cookold,  and  he  was 
so  cdPd,  for  his  wyfe  being  taken  from  him  to  the  bedd  of  the  old  Werowance, 
or  King.  On  farther  questioning  him,  I  learn9 d  that  this  same  King,  cdled 
Kekataughtassapooekskunoughmass  (w°*  is  to  say,  Ninetie  Fish),  had  latelie 
dyjd,  and  I  guess' d  it  was  this  same  Wepenter,  that  in  jedousie  did  murther  him. 
The  towne  then  left  without  a  King,  and  the  old  King  having  no  heirs  save  his 
single  concubyne,  the  Sdvages  must  needs  choose  a  new  Werowance  from  there 
number,  and  this  they  designed  to  doe  on  the  morrowe,  by  a  singular  means. 
"Att  the  Ahatchwhoops  (that  being  the  name  of  there  trybe,  and  signifying, 
a  belch  of  gass)  are  exceeding  smdle  in  stature,  and  for  that  reason  doe  hugelie 
envie  men  of  large  size,  and  heavie.  They  believe,  that  the  more  a  man  can  eat, 
the  bigger  he  will  become,  and  the  heavier  there  King,  the  more  secure  will  be 
there  towne,  against  its  enemies.  Therefore,  whenever  that  a  King  doth  dye 
with  no  mde  heirs,  dl  the  Ahatchwhoops  doe  assemble  for  a  feast,  and  him  who 
doth  prove  the  grandest  glutton  thereat,  they  doe  cdl  King  over  them,  and  be- . 
stowe  upon  him  a  new  name,  signifying  the  atchievement  whereby  he  gaytn'd 
the  throne.  Thus  was  the  old  Werowance  cdled  Kekataughtassapooekskunough- 
mass,  for  that  he  did  eate  ninetie  fish  on  the  daye  he  became  there  King.  And 
thus,  I  guesse,  the  folk  were  ftlie  cdl'd,  Ahatchwhoops,  for  dl  the  rise  of  bellie- 
gass,  that  must  attend  the  feasting. 

Such  was  there  curious  custom,  and  when  I  had  learnt  it,  my  owne  plight,  and 
that  of  my  companie,  grewe  somewhat  more  cleare,  dbeit  I  was  not  certain  yet, 
Why  we  were  held  prisoner?  But  with  more  speach,  I  soon  learn' d,  that  there 
were  in  the  towne  two  men,  who  were  desirous  of  the  throne.  Of  these  one  was 
the  King's  assassin,  even  that  same  Wepenter,  with  whom  spoke,  and  he 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  595  ] 

wish'd  to  be  King,  if  onelie  to  regayn  to  him  selfe  his  wyfe,  the  old  Kings  con- 
cubyne,  that  once  gone  into  by  the  last  King,  c*  then  lie  onelie  with  the  next. 
Wepenters  rivdl  -was  that  same  fatt  Salvage,  that  had  erst  harangu'd  us,  and  he 
was  caird  Attonceaumoughhowgh,  or  Ano^e-targett ,  for  that  he  -was  so  fatt,  and 
-withal  an  easie  marke  to  hitt.  This  Attonce  too  did  lust  after  Wepenters  wyfe, 
that  was  calYd  Pokatawertussan,  orFyre-bedd,  for  the  surpassing  heate  wherewith 
she  did  disport  in  matters  of  love. 

"Now  were  it  a  simple  contest  in  gfuttonie,  betwixt  this  Attonce  &  this 
Wepenter,  then  Wepenter  wd  loose  the  daye  perforce,  for  that  he  was  but  smdle, 
and  Attonce  exceeding  large  of  bellie  &  appetite.  But  any  Salvage,  it  was  there 
custom,  cd  enter  the  lists  by  proxie,  if  witting,  proxie  he  c*  find,  and  s^  his 
champion  then  win  the  field,  they  vfi  share  the  throne  &  the  favours  of  the 
Queene,  but  the  proxie  wd  have  no  power  to  command.  Thus  had  they  alter9 d 
antient  practice,  to  the  end  they  cd  believe  that  the  fattest  man  maketh  the  best 
King,  and  yet  avoyd  the  consequences  of  there  belief. 

"It  was  by  virtue  of  this  custom,  that  Wepenter  &  his  fettowes  had  lay'd  hold 
of  us,  that  we  being  strange  in  appearance,  and  sayling  such  a  curious  vessell, 
he  took  us  for  wonder-workers,  and  was  desirous  of  choosing  from  our  number 
one  to  playe  his  proxie  on  the  morrowe.  He  declard  it  was  Attonces  troup,  that 
had  shot  arrowes  from  the  shoar  to  drive  us  off,  what  tyme  milord  Burlingame 
had  leagu'd  the  Gentlemen  behind  him,  to  force  us  ashoar  in  quest  of  bellie- 
timber.  Maugre  my  contention,  that  the  look  of  the  land  was  hostile.  And 
Wepenter  had  call'd  us  Susquehannocks,  merely  to  frigfiten  his  rivall  out  of 
appetyte. 

"These  &  many  other  things  I  learn9 d  from  this  Wepenter,  who  then  read 
me  his  conditions,  on  hearing  I  was  Captain  of  the  companie.  To  witt:  that  I 
was  to  be  his  proxie  at  the  approaching  feast.  That  SM  I  best  Attonce  in  the 
matter  of  gluttonie,  all  my  companions  w*  be  freed,  and  we  w*  rule  the  towne 
conjoyntlie,  and  share  the  bedd  of  Pokatawertussan.  That  if,  on  the  contrarie,  I 
was  beat  by  Attonce,  then  I  &  dl  my  companie  must  needs  dye  forthwith  at 
Attonces  hands,  for  such  was  the  custom  amongst  the  Ahatchwhoops. 

"I  reply9 d,  that  I  was  honour'd  by  his  choyce,  but  poynted  out  1  was  slight 
of  girth,  and  temperate  of  appetyte,  not  given  to  feats  of  gluttonie.  Therefore, 
if  he  wd  have  a  proxie,  I  suggested  he  choose  not  me,  but  examine  our  companie, 
and  of  there  number  choose  the  fattest  &  most  gluttonous  of  aspect,  for  his 
proxie.  This  Wepenter  did  on  the  instant,  and  regarding  att  my  souldiers  & 
Gentlemen,  while  that  they  slept,  stopt  at  length  over  Burlingame,  even  as  I 
had  design' d,  and  seeing  that  greate  mountcdne  of  dung,  spread  out  &  snoring 
like  unto  a  swine  in  the  wallow,  Wepenter  did  make  me  a  sign,  this  was  his 
choyce.  I  commended  his  wisdome,  and  assur'd  him,  that  with  such  a  proxie, 
his  victorie  was  certain,  and  he  w*  have  at  Pokatawertussan  on  the  morrow. 
Thereupon  we  smoak'd  severdll  pypes  of  tobacco  by  the  fyre,  and  talk'd  through 
the  night  of  many  an  idle  thing. 

"When  that  I  saw  the  dawn  grow  light  without  the  hutt,  I  did  wake  Burlin- 
game, ere  the  rest  of  the  companie  arose,  and  addressed  him  boastfullie  in  this 
wise.  That  I  had  deflowr'd  Pocahontas  before  his  eyes,  and  had  farther  layn  with 


[  596  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Hicktopedkes  Queene,  what  tyme  he  had  abandon9  d  her  for  harlot.  He  then  en- 
quir'd,  in  a  fearsome  choler,  Wherefore  had  he  to  heare  these  things  again?  to 
wch  I  answer* d  that  even  as  I  had  out-done  him  in  manlinesse  on  these  occasions, 
so  was  I  about  to  doe  againe,  for  that  there  was  that  morn  to  be  a  contest, 
whereof  the  winner  SM  lie  at  his  pleasure  with  a  comelie  Salvage  wench,  the  dead 
Kings  concubyne.  On  hearing  these  tydings,  Burlingame  grewe  much  arows'd, 
and  with  much  cursing  &  gnashing  of  teeth,  did  vilifye  me,  and  at  length  re- 
sorted to  his  antient  threat,  even  that  shd  I  not  stand  aside  this  tyme,  and  lett 
him  futter  the  Salvage  in  my  stead,  he  w*  straightwaye  noyse  about,  in  James- 
towne  &  the  London  C°  my  employer,  the  truth  anent  Pocahontas  &  Hickto- 
peakes  Queene.  I  did  replye,  that  I  car'd  not  a  whitt  for  all  his  threats  (albeit 
in  sooth  things  w*  goe  hard,  did  my  enemies  get  wind  of  his  faule  stone).  Be- 
sides wc\  I  declar'd  I  had  no  choyce  in  the  businesse,  for  that  the  entyre  com- 
panie,  and  the  Salvage  troup  as  well,  had  perforce  to  enter  the  lists,  it  being  the 
wont  of  these  Ahatchwhoops,  thus  to  make  a  pryze  of  there  comeliest  lassies. 
He  enquired,  What  manner  of  contest  was  it?  and  upon  my  telling  him,  that  he 
won  the  mayd,  who  eat  the  hugest  cfuantitie  of  food,  he  was  entyrelie  pleas'd, 
and  did  sweare,  he  w*  eat  twice  over  what  any  Salvage  c*,  &  thrice  what 
I  or  any  of  our  companie  might  eate.  That  he  was  insatiable  of  appetyte,  and 
had  eat  no  food  for  two  daies,  and  hence  was  certain  to  win  the  faire  mayd.  I 
did  rejoyn,  that  tyme  w*  prove  his  boast,  but  for  my  selfe,  all  I  car'd  was  that 
some  one  of  our  companie  be  victor,  and  not  the  great  fatt  Salvage  of  yesterdaye, 
for  else  we  SM  all  be  put  to  the  speere.  Moreover,  that  shd  he  win  the  test,  and  so 
save  all  our  lives,  not  onelie  w*  he  enjoye  the  prettie  peece  with  all  my  blessing, 
but  Iwdlet  bye-gones  be  bye-gones,  and  never  againe  bragg  of  my  conquests,  or 
his  owne  dificiende.  Farther,  that  I  w*  arrange  matters  with  Pocahontas,  that  he 
s™  trye  her  favours,  when  once  we  return' d  to  Jamestowne. 

"These  words  fell  sweet  on  the  eares  of  Burlingame.  He  did  growe  doublie 
hott,  for  thinking  of  them.  When  I  recall'd  to  him  then,  what  was  our  fate  SM 
Attonce  win  the  daye,  he  reply  d,  that  he  worry' d  not  a  beane.  That  he  c*  eate 
any  Englishman  or  heathen  under  the  table.  And  he  smack' d  his  greate  stomacke 
with  his  hand,  whereupon  it  set  up  such  a  clamour,  one  had  guess'd  att  the  feends 
of  Hell  therein.  These  thing?  we  spoke  in  English,  that  Wepenter  might  not 
heare  &  guesse  my  ruse. 

"Somewhile  after,  our  companie  was  awake,  and  the  souldiers  &  Gentlemen 
compleyning  of  there  bellies,  that  they  had  naught  to  eate.  The  Salvages  did 
gather  without  the  hutt,  and  a  greate  fyre  built,  and  we  were  led  outside  by 
Wepenter,  and  seated  in  a  half-circle,  he  behind  Burlingame.  Across  from  us  satt 
down  Attonce,  all  fatt  and  ugie  he  was,  and  with  him  a  score  of  his  cohorts,  in 
another  half-circle  upon  the  grownd.  Came  then  from  a  hutt  hard  by, 
Pokatawertussan,  and  sat  down  betwixt  the  half -circles,  on  a  kind  of  rugg,  to  see 
who  ^  be  her  next  bedd-fellowe.  She  was  that  same  mayde,  who  on  the  day  just 
past  had  quieted  all  harangue,  merelie  by  raysing  her  armes  &  walking  bye.  Half 
cladd  she  was,  and  bedawb'd  with  puckoone  paynt,  after  the  manner  of  Salvage 
wenches,  and  so  surpassing  faire  &  tight  withal,  I  had  neare  wish'd  my  selfe 
greate  of  gutt,  to  win  her  favours.  At  sight  of  her,  Attonce  let  goe  a  mightie  hol- 
lowing, and  Burlingame,  tike  the  rest  of  us  save  onelie  me,  all  naked,  for  that  our 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  597  ] 

shirts  had  mended  our  sayle  in  the  storme,  and  our  breeches  flung  to  the  fishes 
after  our  siege  of  fluxes  &  grypes  in  Limbo  Strait,  he  was  so  taken  with  her,  that 
he  shook  all  over,  and  slaver1 d  over  his  lipps  &  sundrie  chinnes.  He  whisper' d  to 
me,  not  to  tell  the  others  what  we  were  about,  that  they  w*  not  contend  with 
him,  and  I  agreed  with  a  right  good  will,  for  that  I  desir'd  no  man  save  Burlin- 
game  to  win. 

"Attonce  then  commenc'd  to  slapp  his  bellie  with  his  hands,  to  the  end  he 
might  arowse  a  grander  lust  for  food,  and  seeing  him,  Burlingame  did  likewise, 
untill  the  rumbling  of  there  gutts  did  eckoe  about  the  swamps  like  the  thunder  of 
vukanoes.  Next  Attonce,  sitting  cross-legged,  did  bump  his  buttockes  up  &  down 
upon  the  earthe,  farther  to  appetyze  him  selfe;  Burlingame  also,  that  he  give  his 
foe  no  quarter,  and  the  verie  grownd  shudder'd  beneath  there  awful  bummes. 
Burlingame  then  blubber' d  his  lipps  &  snapt  the  joynt-bones  of  his  fingers,  and 
Attonce  likewise.  Attonce  op*d  &  shutt  his  jawes  with  greate  rapiditie,  and  also 
Burlingame.  And  thus  they  did  goe  on,  through  many  a  ceremonie,  whetting 
there  hungers,  whilst  our  companie  sat  as  amaz'd,  not  knowing  what  they  wit- 
ness'd,  and  the  Salvages  clapt  there  hands  &  daunc'd  about,  and  Pokatawertus- 
san  look'd  all  lustilie  from  one  to  the  other. 

"At  length,  from  everie  hutt  in  the  towne,  the  women  and  old  men  brought 
forth  the  sundrie  dishes  of  the  feast,  that  had  been  some  daies  preparing.  To 
each  of  us  was  given  a  platter  of  divers  foods,  and  onelie  one,  wch  shew'd,  though 
it  was  sufficient  to  fill  us  with  comfort,  that  none  of  us  were  reckon' d  as  contend- 
ers, save  onelie  Burlingame  &  Attonce,  before  whom  they  set  dish  after  dish. 
For  houres  thereafter,  while  that  the  rest  watch'd  in  astonishment,  the  two 
gluttons  match' d  dish  for  dish,  and  herewith  is  the  summe  of  what  they  eat: 

Of  keskowghnoughmass,  the  yellowe-belly'd  sunne-fish, 
tenne  apiece. 

Of  copatone,  the  sturgeon,  one  apiece. 

Of  pummahumpnoughmass,  fry'd  star-fish,  three  apiece. 

Of  pawpeconoughmass,  pype-fishes,  four  apiece,  dry'd. 

Of  boyPd  froggs,  divers  apiece,  assorted  buttes, 
greenes,  trees,  &  spring  peepers. 

Of  blowfish,  two  apiece,  frizzl'd  &  blow'd. 

Of  terrapin,  a  tortoise,  one  apiece,  stew'd. 

Also  oysters,  crabbs,  trowt,  croakers,  rock-fish,  ftownders,  clamms,  maninose,  & 
such  other  sea-food  as  the  greate  Baye  doth  gve  up. 
They  next  did  eate: 

Of  mallard,  canvas-backe,  &  buffo-head  ducks,  morsels 
&  mix'd  peeces  in  like  amounts. 

Of  hooded  mergansers,  one  apiece,  on  picks  as  is  there  wont 

Of  pypers,  one  apiece,  dry'd  &  pouder'd. 

Of  cohimk,  a  taystie  goose,  half  apiece. 

Of  snypes,  one  apiece,  baggd. 

Of  black  &  white  warblers,  one  apiece,  throttTd. 

Of  rubie-throated  humming-birds,  two  apiece,  scalded, 
pickVd,  &  intensify'd. 

Of  gross-beeks,  one  apiece,  bitt'd  &  erack'd. 


[  598  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Of  browne  creepers,  one  apiece,  hitt. 

Of  long-bill'd  marsh  wrenns,  a  bird,  one  apiece,  grows?  d 
&  disembowell'd. 

Of  catt  birds,  one  apiece,  dyc'd&  fetch'd. 

Of  growse,  a  legg  apiece,  smother* d  naturall. 

Also  divers  eggp,  and  bitts  &  bytes  of  turkie  and  -what  all.  The  fowles  done,  they 
turned  to  meat,  and  eat: 

Of  marsh  ratts,  one  apiece,  fry'd. 

Of  raccoon,  hdf  a  one  apiece,  grutted. 

Of  dogg,  equdl  portions,  a  sort  of  spaniett  it  was. 

Of  venison,  one  pryme  apiece,  dry'd. 

Of  beare-cubb,  a  rasher  each,  roasted. 

Of  catamount,  a  haunch  &  griskin  apiece,  spitted  &  turrid. 

Of  baits,  two  apiece,  boyl'd,  de  gustibus  &  cet. 

No  rabbitts.  While  that  they  eat  of  these  severdl  meats,  there  were  serv'd  to  them 
vegetables,  to  the  number  of  five:  beanes,  rockahominy  (w<*  is  to  say,  parch7 d  & 
pouder'd  mayze),  eggplant  (that  the  French  call  aubergine),  wild  ryce,  &  a 
saLlet  of  greene  reedes,  that  was  calTd  Attaskus.  Also  berries  of  divers  sorts,  but  no 
frutes,  and  the  whole  wash'd  downe  with  glue-broth  and  greate  draughts  of 
Sawwehonesuckhanna,  wc7lr  signifyeth,  bloud-water,  a  mild  spirits  they  distill  out 
in  the  swamp. 

"The  while  this  wondrous  feast  was  being  eat,  Wepenter  did  pownd  &  stryke 
Burlingame  upon  the  backe  &  bettie,  to  settle  his  stomacke,  and  Attonces  aides 
did  likewise  him  smite.  After  that  each  course  was  done,  they  did  both  ope  there 
mowths  wide,  and  Wepenter  thrust  his  finger  downe  Burlingames  crawe,  & 
Attonce  his  owne  likewise,  or  else  have  recourse  to  a  syrup  call'd  hipocoacanah, 
so  that  they  did  vomitt  what  was  eat,  and  cleare  the  holds  for  more.  The  Salvages 
did  leap  &  daunce  the  while,  and  Pokatawertussan  twist  &  wrythe  for  verie  lust 
upon  the  rugg,  at  two  such  manlie  men. 

When  at  last  this  Attonce  did  get  him  selfe  to  his  redd  berries,  w0*  was  the 
final  dish,  that  the  Salvages  had  prepaid,  and  he  did  put  one  in  his  mawe,  and 
drop  out  two  therefrom,  for  want  of  room,  his  lieutenant  smote  him  one  last 
greate  blow  upon  the  gutt,  whereat  Attonce  did  let  ftie  a  tooling  fart  and  dy'd 
upon  the  instant  where  he  sat.  And  was  too  stuff  d,  even  to  fall  over.  Then  did  the 
Salvages  on  our  side  crie  out,  Ahatchwhoop,  Ahatchwhoop,  signifying,  that 
Attonce  was  disqualify' d  from  farther  competition.  But  albeit  he  was  dead,  our 
Burlingame  was  not  yet  victor,  for  that  the  twain  had  eat  to  a  draw  as  far  as  to 
there  find  berrie.  It  wanted  onelie  for  Burlingame  to  take  but  a  single  swallow 
more,  and  our  lives  were  sav'd.  We  hollow1  d  at  him,  we  cry'd  &  intreated,  but 
Burlingame  onelie  sat  still,  his  eyes  rownd,  his  face  greene,  his  cheeks  blown  out, 
his  mowth  filTd  with  berries,  and  for  all  our  exhortation,  cd  not  eat  another  bite. 
Here  I  leapt  up  from  where  I  sat,  and  snatching  the  last  boyl'd  batt  out  of  the 
caldron,  prfd  open  his  jaws  &  thrust  it  in.  Then  held  shutt  his  mowth,  and  de- 
livering him  a  stout  rapp  on  the  head,  did  cause  him  to  swallow  it  down. 

So  clearlie  then  was  Burlingame  the  victor,  that  Wepenter  sprang  upon  him, 
and  rubb'd  his  nose  against  Burlingames,  and  fetch'd  him  a  loving  pott  upon  the 
bettie.  Whereat  Burlingame  did  heave  up  what  he  had  eat,  and  so  befowVd 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  599  ] 

Wepenter  therewith,  the  Salvage  must  needs  hie  him  selfe  to  the  mer-shoar  & 
wash.  All  the  people  then  declared  Burlingame  Werawance,  or  King,  but  he  -was 
too  ill  &  doltish  to  grasp  there  'words. 

"It  being  by  this  tyme  nightfall,  for  that  the  feast  had  lasted  att  the  daie, 
Burlingame  was  carry9 d  in  state  to  the  old  Kings  hutt,  and  there  install' d,  not 
able  to  move,  and  Pokatawertussan  follow' d  after ;  all  a  tremble.  Wepenter  mean- 
while,  did  exact  allegiance  from  those  Ahatchwhoops,  that  had  been  with 
Attonce,  and  bade  them  fetch  awaye  the  dead  mans  carcase,  the  wcjl  still  sat,  for 
burialL  I  told  my  companie,  that  we  were  free  men,  and  w*  make  sayle  on  the 
morrow,  at  woh  tydings  they  shew'd  good  humour,  thougfi  they  grasp'd  little  of 
what  had  pass'd. 

"When  that  the  sunne  rose,  we  wak'd,  and  taking  provisions  a  plentie,  the  gift 
of  Wepenter,  made  readie  to  return  to  our  barge,  and  pick  up  the  broken  thread 
of  our  journie.  This  Wepenter  was  in  fine  good  spirits,  and  upon  my  asking, 
Wherefore?  he  reply9 d,  that  neare  midnight,  while  that  he  slept,  Pokatawertussan 
had  come  to  his  hutt,  albeit  she  was  by  custom  bound  to  lye  the  first  night  with 
the  proxie.  I  wonder' d  thereat,  and  Burlingame  joyning  us  at  the  last  minute, 
even  as  we  left  downe  the  path  to  the  shoar,  I  askd  him,  Had  Pokatawertussan 
earn'd  her  name?  Whereupon  he  curs9d  me  ardentlie,  and  said,  That  the  last 
boyUd  Batt  had  so  undone  him,  he  knew  not  where  he  was  the  whole  night  long. 
That  he  had  not  been  able  even  to  see  any  Salvage  trollop,  how  much  the  less  doe 
a  mans  work  upon  her.  He  was  surpassing  wroth  with  me,  for  having  thrust  the 
Batt  upon  him,  and  maugre  my  protestation,  that  I  had  spar'd  the  lott  of  us  there- 
bye,  he  vow'd  afresh  to  tell  his  tatting  tale  on  me,  and  write  letters  to  the  London 
C°,&cet.  .  .  .  I  responded,  that  I  had  made  a  pact  with  him,  that  SM  he  win,  he 
c*  doe  whatsoever  he  wd,  and  turning,  led  my  companie  downe  the  path.  Burlin- 
game follow9  d,  in  all  innocence,  till  that,  to  his  surprize,  the  Salvages  lay'd  hands 
on  him,  and  maugre  his  whoops  and  hollowings,  bore  him  back  to  the  Kings  hutt, 
to  reign  over  them  with  Wepenter  for  ever. 

"My  souldiers  and  Gentlemen  much  alarm9 d  thereat,  I  made  them  a.  speach, 
that  they  SM  be  of  good  hearte.  That  the  Salvages  had  demanded  Burlingame  as 
tribute  for  our  libertie,  and  being  so  few  &  unarm' d,  we  had  naugfit  for  it,  but 
deliver  him  up  &  go  in  peece,  onelie  bearing  his  memorie  for  ever  in  our  heartes. 
This  counsell  at  length  prevayl'd,  albeit  the  companie  shew'd  great  sadnesse, 
more  especiallie  the  Gentlemen  thereof,  and  we  wav'd  to  Wepenter  as  we  went 
downe  to  the  barge.  For  the  favour  of  Princes,  even  amongst  the  Salvages,  is  a 
slipperie  boone,  lightlie  granted,  and  as  lightlie  withdrawn,  and  we  wished  onelie 
to  retayne  it,  untill  that  we  were  safe  againe  in  our  barge,  and  awaye  from  his 
scurvie,  barbarous  countrie.  Whither  (God  wot)  I  shall  never  return,  nor  yet 
(God  grant)  any  other  Englishman. 

"And  may  tie  smyte  me  dead  here  where  I  sit,  in  the  sternsheets  of  our  trustie 
barge,  if  any  word  of  these  adventures  passe  my  lipps,  or  those  of  my  Companie 
(the  w°h  I  have  this  daye  sworn  to  eternal  silence),  or  ever  appeare  in  my  greate 
General!  Historic,  for: 

When  one  must  needs  Companions  leave  for  dead, 
Tis  well  the  Tale  thereof  were  left  unread/' 


8:    THE  FATE  OF  FATHER  JOSEPH  FITZMAURICE,  S.J.,  IS 
FURTHER  ILLUMINATED,  AND  ITSELF  ILLUMINES 
MYSTERIES  MORE  TENEBROUS  AND  PREGNANT 


WHEN  EBENEZER  LOOKED  UP,  STILL  AGAPE,  FROM  THE  COUPLET  AT  THE 

foot  of  Captain  John  Smith's  Secret  Historic,  Chicamec  commanded  him, 
through  Drepacca,  to  return  the  volume  to  the  chest,  and  the  guards,  who 
had  knelt  throughout  the  lengthy  reading,  rose  to  their  feet  and  carried  the 
chest  back  to  its  corner.  Both  Bertrand  and  McEvoy  were  surprised  to  hear 
the  name  Burlingame  in  the  manuscript,  but  knowing  nothing  of  the 
current  Henry  Burlingame's  past  or  the  contents  of  the  manuscripts  relative 
to  this  one-and  having  the  sentence  of  death  upon  their  heads— they  were 
more  bewildered  than  astonished  by  the  narrative.  Ebenezer,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  fairly  bursting  with  curiosity,  but  before  he  could  formulate  a 
proper  question,  the  old  chief  demanded  to  hear  again  the  poet's  description 
of  his  former  tutor. 

"What  is  his  aspect?"  Quassapelagh  translated.  'Tell  of  his  skin  and  the 
rest." 

'Tfaith — "  Ebenezer  frowned  in  recollection.  "His  skin  is  not  so  fair 
as  McEvo/s,  yonder,  nor  yet  so  dark  as  Bertrand's;  'tis  near  in  hue  to 
my  own,  I'd  venture.  As  for  his  faoe-i'Christ,  he  hath  so  many-let  me 
say  only  that  in  stature  he  is  slighter  than  any  of  us,  a  quite  short  fellow, 
in  fact,  but  his  want  of  height  is  the  less  apparent  forasmuch  as  he  hath 
a  deep  chest  and  good  shoulders,  and  his  neck  and  limbs  are  stout.  Ah, 
yes,  and  his  eyes-tbey  are  dark,  and  have  at  times  the  glitter  of  a  serpent's " 

Chicamec  nodded  with  satisfaction  to  hear  these  things;  his  next  ques- 
tion caijsed  the  Anacostin  King  to  narrow  his  eyes,  and  Drepacca  to  smile 
the  briefest  of  royal  smiles. 

"The  Tayac  Chicamec  desires  to  know  about  your  friend  ,  .  ."  He 
searched  for  words,  and  the  old  chief,  as  though  to  assist  him,  held  tip 
one  of  his  little  fingers  grasped  at  the  second  joint.  Quassapelagh  went  on 
determinedly,  "He  wishes  to  know  about  that  part " 

"They  call  it  the  privy  member,"  offered  Drepacca. 

Quassapelagh  did  not  acknowledge  the  assistance  but  relied  on  it  to  make 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  6oi  ] 

his  message  clear.  "Whether  it  is  of  that  small  size,  nor  ever  is  moved  by 
love  to  manly  proportion?" 

Ebenezer  blushed  and  replied  that,  quite  to  the  contrary,  Burlingame 
was  to  be  censured  more  for  excess  than  for  defect  of  carnal  resources; 
that  he  was,  in  fact,  the  very  quintessence  of  fleshly  lust,  a  man  the  catalogue 
of  whose  conquests  surpassed  all  reasonable  bounds  in  respect  not  only 
of  length,  but  as  well  of  manner  and  object 

The  Tayac  received  this  news  without  surprise  or  disappointment  and 
merely  inquired  more  particularly  whether  Ebenezer  himself  had  been  pres- 
ent at  any  of  these  deplorable  activities. 

"Of  course  not,"  the  poet  said,  not  a  little  annoyed,  for  he  found  the 
whole  inquiry  as  uncomfortable  as  it  was  distasteful. 

But  surely  the  brother  of  Quassapelagh  had  observed  with  his  own  eyes 
the  instrument  of  his  teacher's  lechery? 

"I  have  not,  nor  do  I  wish  to!  What  is  the  end  of  all  these  questions?" 

Drepacca  listened  to  his  elder  colleague  and  then  declared  to  Ebenezer, 
"This  man  of  whom  you  speak  is  Henry  Burlingame  Three;  the  fat  English- 
man of  the  book"— he  pointed  toward  the  chest  in  the  corner— "is  Henry 
Burlingame  One,  the  father  of  the  father  of  your  friend/' 

"In  truth?  'Sheart,  'twas  what  Henry  hoped  for  from  the  first,  but  ne'er 
could  prove!"  He  laughed  ironically.  "What  joy  it  is,  to  gladden  a  friend's 
heart  with  news  like  this!  But  when  Henry  was  my  friend  I'd  naught  to 
give  him;  now  I  have  these  wondrous  tidings  and  no  friend  to  give  them 

to,  for "  He  was  about  to  say  that  Burlingame  had  betrayed  not  only 

him  but  the  cause  of  justice;  he  checked  himself  upon  reflecting  that,  to 
say  the  least,  he  was  no  longer  certain  whether  justice  lay  with  Baltimore 
or  John  Coode,  assuming  the  real  existence  of  those  gentlemen,  and 
whether  in  fact  it  was  Burlingame  or  Reality  that  had  betrayed  him,  or  the 
reverse,  or  simply  he  who  had  betrayed  himself  in  some  deep  wise.  "The 
truth  oft  is,"  he  declared  instead,  and  realized  the  truth  of  his  proposition 
a$  he  articulated  it,  "my  friend  hath  passed  into  realms  of  complexity  be- 
yond my  compass,  and  I  have  lost  him." 

This  sentiment  proved  incapable  of  translation,  even  by  the  knowledge- 
able Drepacca,  who  first  interpreted  it  to  mean  that  Burlingame  was  dead. 

"No  matter"— the  poet  smiled— "I  love  him  still  and  yearn  to  tell  him 
what  I've  found.  But  stay— we  have  the  grandsire  and  grandson,  it  appears, 
but  what  came  between?  And  how  is't  Henry  was  found  floating  in  yonder 
Bay?  Ask  the  Tayac  Chicamec  who  was  Burlingame  Two,  and  what  came 
of  him." 


[602]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Drepacca  had  no  need  to  relay  the  question,  for  at  the  words  Burlingame 
Two  old  Chicamec,  who  had  been  listening  intently,  grunted  and  nodded 
his  head. 

"Henry  Burlingame  Two/'  He  pronounced  the  words  clearly,  with  no 
trace  of  Indian  accent,  and  tapped  his  thumb  against  his  shrunken  chest. 
"Henry  Burlingame  Two." 

"You?  Ah,  nay!"  But  even  as  Ebenezer  protested  his  incredulity,  he  saw 
in  the  high  cheekbones  and  bright  reptilian  eyes  the  ghost  of  a  resem- 
blance to  his  friend.  "Ah,  nay!"  he  cried  again.  "Say  rather  he  is  the  son 
of  Andrew  Cooke;  tell  me  his  name  is  Ebenezer,  the  Laureate  of  Maryland 
—'twere  as  easy  to  believe!  Nay,  gentlemen:  'tis  beyond  the  Bounds;  out- 
side the  Pale!" 

Be  that  as  it  may,  Chicamec  replied  in  effect,  he  was  the  father  of 
Henry  Burlingame  III,  whom  he  himself  had  set  afloat  to  drown.  He  went 
on  to  tell  a  most  surprising  tale  for  which  Quassapelagh,  clearly  his  favorite, 
provided  a  running  translation,  deferring  with  reluctance  to  Drepacca  at  the 
more  difficult  passages: 

"The  Tayac  Chicamec  is  a  mighty  foe  of  white  men!"  he  began.  "Woe 
betide  the  white-skinned  traveler  whq  sets  foot  on  this  island  while  even 
one  Ahatchwhoop  dwells  here!  For  the  Ahatchwhoops  will  not  be  sold 
into  slavery  like  the  people  of  Drepacca,  nor  traffick  for  English  guns 
and  English  spirits  like  the  people  of  Annoughtough  and  Panquas,  nor 
yet  flee  their  homes  and  hunting-places " 

"Like  the  people  of  Quassapelagh,"  Drepacca  obliged. 

"Rather  will  they  put  to  the  torch  every  white  man  who  stumbles  into 
their  midst,  and  lead  the  great  war-party  that  sjiall  drive  the  English  Devils 
into  the  sea,  or  else  die  fighting  here  upon  their  island,  under  the  white 
man's  guns!" 

Here  Ebenezer  interrupted.  "You  must  ask  the  Tayac  Chicamec  the  rea- 
son for  his  wrath,  Quassapelagh:  I  judge  from  yonder  journal-book  that 
his  people  have  suffered  small  harm  from  the  English  these  four-score 
years.  He  hath  not  one  tenth  the  grievance  of  Quassapelagh  or  Drepacca^ 
yet  he  shews  ten  times  their  spleen." 

"My  brother  asks  a  barbed  question/'  said  Quassapelagh  with  a  smile. 
"I  shall  put  it  to  the  Tayac  Chicamec  without  the  barbs/' 

j  He  did  so,  and  with  the  typical  indirection  of  the  savage,  Chicamec 
ordered  the  chest  brought  out  again  in  lieu  of  immecjiate  reply.  This  time 
he  took  out  the  journal  himself— the  guards  knelt  down  at  once  and  lowered 
their  eyes— and  held  it  grimly  at  arm's  length. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  603  ] 

'This  is  The  Book  of  English  Devils,7'  he  said  through  Quassapelagh. 
"Its  tale  you  know:  how  my  godlike  father,  the  Tayac  Henry  Burlingame 
One,  did  best  the  great  Attonceaumoughhough  as  champion  for  Wepenter, 
and  drove  off  the  English  Devils  from  our  land." 

"Nay,  one  moment "  the  poet  protested,  but  thought  better  of  it  at 

once.  "I  mean  to  say,  he  was  in  sooth  a  mighty  man." 

"He  drove  out  the  English  Devils  upon  their  ship,"  Chicamec  resumed, 
"and  then  pursued  them  himself  along  the  shore,  for  it  was  his  vow  that 
he  would  follow  them  to  their  next  encampment  and  there  destroy  the 
lot.  He  crossed  to  the  northern  mainland  by  canoe  and  ran  all  day  along 
the  shore  of  the  marshy  Honga,  up  whose  broad  reaches  sailed  the  unwary 
Devils.  And  when  these  Devils  put  ashore  to  make  their  camp,  then  did 
the  Tayac  Burlingame  spring  to  kill  them,  with  no  weapon  save  his  hands. 
But  Wepenter  had  mistrusted  the  courage  and  godlike  prowess  of  the  white- 
skinned  Werowance  and  had  followed  after  with  a  war-party,  and  for  this 
sin  the  gods  bound  fast  my  father's  limbs  with  invisible  thongs,  so  that  the 
Devils  slew  Wepenter  and  divers  others,  and  made  good  their  escape  before 
my  father  could  destroy  them.  But  in  their  haste  they  left  behind  this  book, 
in  which  was  writ  the  Tayac  Burlingame's  mighty  deeds,  and  he  preserved 
it  to  remind  all  future  ages  of  Ahatchwhoops  that  the  English  are  the  seed 
of  those  same  Devils,  and  must  be  slain  on  sight 

"Now  you  must  know  that  my  heavenly  father  was  a  man  of  no  common 
parts  in  carnal  matters;  but  as  the  storm-god  stores  his  strength  for  many 
moons  and  then  in  a  night  lays  waste  the  countryside,  so  the  Tayac  Henry 
Burlingame  One  had  a™ " 

"A  member,"  Drepacca  offered,  for  the  second  time  that  day. 

"It  was  no  greater  than  a  puppy's,  nor  more  useful,  nor  did  he  go  into 
the  Queen  Pokatawertussan  for  three  full  nights  after  the  Feast.  But  on 
the  f ourth,,  so  say  our  legends,  he  summoned  her  to  the  bed,  and  performed 
the  Rites  of  the  Holy  Egg-plant,  after  which  he  got  a  child  in  her  so  mightily, 
she  ne'er  left  her  bed  again,  and  died  in  bringing  me  forth! 

"For  twenty-six  summers  thereafter,"  Chicamec's  tale  continued,  "the 
Ahatchwhoops  lived  in  peace  under  my  father's  rule.  Our  fishermen  brought 
us  stories  of  English  Devils  far  to  the  south,  and  divers  times  we  saw  their 
great  white  ships  go  up  the  Bay,  yet  never  did  they  put  ashore  on  our  island 
or  the  nearby  mainland.  And  great  was  my  father's  wrath  against  them: 
when  my  mother  the  Queen  Pokatawertussan  was  in  travail,  he  vowed  to 
her  he'd  slay  their  child  ere  its  cord  was  cut,  if  it  was  born  white.  And  he 
named  me  Henry  Burlingame  Two,  but  called  me  by  an  Ahatchwhoop 


[604]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

name,  Chicamec.  Every  day  he  would  read  The  Book  of  English  Devils, 
and  farther  inflame  the  Ahatchwhoops  to  murther  any  white  man  who 
fell  into  their  hands.  In  my  twenty-sixth  year  he  died,  and  with  his  last 
breath  told  our  people  that  the  Tayac  Chicamec  would  guard  their  town 
against  the  English  Devils,  and  he  swore  me  to  a  mighty  oath,  that  I  would 
slay  any  white-skinned  man  who  came  among  us,  even  from  the  wombs 
of  my  wife  and  concubines. 

"Loud  were  the  wails  of  the  Ahatchwhoops  upon  his  passing,  and  when 
I  became  Werowance  in  his  stead,  I  prayed  for  a  sign  of  favor  from  the 
gods.  At  once  a  terrible  storm  crashed  all  about  us  and  blew  hither  a  med- 
icine-rnan  from  amongst  the  English  Devils,  all  senseless  and  half  drowned 
—by  which  sign  we  knew  the  gods  favored  my  reign  and  my  cause.  Lest 
any  of  our  number  doubt  he  was  a  Devil  and  take  him  for  a  human  like 
ourselves,  I  held  forth  our  sacred  totem  for  him  to  reverence,  and  being 
a  Devil,  he  spat  upon  it.  Thereupon  we  offered  him  the  privileges  of  the 
damned  and  burnt  him  next  day  in  yonder  court,  as  you  all— save  the 
brother  of  Quassapelagh— shall  burn/' 

"Stay,  prithee!"  cried  Ebenezer,  whose  mind  had  been  wrestling  with 
dates  and  recollections.  "Captain  John  Smith  made  his  voyage  in  1608, 
and  you  murthered  this  English  Devil  in  your  twenty-sixth  year:  I  say, 
Quassapelagh,  ask  him  whether  that  chest  yonder  did  not  belong  to  this 
medicine-man  he  speaks  of  .  .  ." 
The  question  was  translated  and  answered  affirmatively. 
"Ffaith,  then— one  more  question:  hath  the  Tayac  Chicamec  any  other 
sons  besides  my  friend  Henry  Burlingame?"  He  strove  to  recall  the  tales 
he'd  heard  from  the  Jesuit  Thomas  Smith  and  from  Mary  Mungummory, 
the  Traveling  Whore  o'  Dorset.  "Hath  he  a  son  now  dead  called  Charley 
.  .  .  Moccassin?  Mackinack?  Nay,  not  that .  .  .  'twas  Mattassin,  I  believe." 
At  mention  of  this  name  Chicamec's  face  went  hard,  and  his  reply, 
according  to  Quassapelagh,  was,  "The  Tayac  Chicamec  hath  no  sons." 

"No  sons?"  Ebenezer  was  sorely  disappointed.  "Ah  well,  no  matter, 
then;  'tis  only  a  curious  coincidence  of  events'." 

"Quassapelagh's  brother  doth  mistake  us,"  Drepacca  put  in  pleasantly. 
"The  Anacostin  King  hath  Englished  Chicamec's  words,  but  not  his  mean- 
ing." He  turned  to  Ebenezer.  "In  truth  the  Tayac  Chicamec  hath  sons, 
but  they  both  deserted  him  to  live  among  the  English,  and  he  hath  dis- 
owned them.  One  was  the  man  you  mentioned,  whose  name  I  shan't  re- 
peat: he  slew  a  family  of  English  and  was  hanged." 
"Then  I'm  right!"  the  poet  exulted.  "This  medicine-man  was  a  Jesuit 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [605] 

missionary,  and  yonder  are  his  soutanes  and  holy-water!  And  'sbody- 


His  imagination  leaped  to  new  connections.  "Doth  it  not  follow  that  Bur- 
lingame  is  half-brother  to  this  murthering  Mattassin?" 

No  one  else  in  the  hut,  of  course,  was  in  a  position  to  appreciate  these 
revelations,  and  so  far  from  sharing  Ebenezer's  exhilaration,  Bertrand  and 
McEvoy  grew  ever  more  morose;  clearly  they  were  impatient  with  the  whole 
affair  that  had  distracted  Ebenezer  from  the  business  of  saving  their  lives 
and  regarded  his  academic  curiosity  and  enthusiasm  as  evidence  that  he 
had  abandoned  them. 

The  second  mention  of  Charley  Mattassin's  name  elicited  strong  rebuke 
from  Chicamec. 

"Methinks  you  should  be  proud  of  him,"  Ebenezer  ventured.  "Tis  true 
his  victims  were  Dutch  and  not  English,  but  they  were  white-skinned  in 
any  case/' 

"Take  care,  Brother,"  warned  Quassapelagh.  "I  shall  tell  the  Tayac  Chic- 
amec that  you  apologize  for  calling  Mattassin  his  son/' 

This  done,  the  old  chief  went  on  with  his  story,  and  for  the  first  time 
an  emotion  other  than  wrath  and  malevolence  could  be  noticed  in  his 
tone: 

"For  many  summers  the  Tayac  Chicamec  had  denied  himself  the  joys 
of  a  wife  and  sons/7  Quassapelagh  translated.  "His  heavenly  father  Henry 
Burlingame  One  had  given  him  to  know  that  his  seed  was  mixed,  and  had 
farther  sworn  him  to  destroy  any  white-skinned  issue;  therefore,  to  spare 
himself  the  pain  of  putting  a  child  of  his  own  to  the  spear,  he  chose  to 
live  and  die  without  the  solace  of  a  family. 

"Now  it  happened  that  the  medicine-man  English  Devil  had  lain  with 
divers  women  of  the  Ahatchwhoops  on  the  night  before  he  died— as  is  the 
privilege  of  a  man  condemned,  except  he  be  a  prisoner  of  war  like  your- 
self—and had  got  three  of  them  with  child.  The  issue  of  the  third  was  a 
daughter,  more  red  than  her  father  and  more  white  than  her  mother,  and 
the  Ahatchwhoops  took  the  child  and  made  to  drown  her  in  the  Chesa- 
peake; but  the  Tayac  Chicamec  stayed  their  hands,  observing  to  them  that 
the  skin  of  the  girl-child  was  of  the  same  hue  as  his  own.  He  took  her  to  his 
empty  hut  and  raised  her  as  his  daughter,  and  this  was  a  mighty  sin  against 
the  gods,  but  the  Tayac  Chicamec  knew  it  not 

"Thus  it  was  that  the  child  of  the  Devil  was  reared  as  a  princess  amongst 
the  Ahatchwhoops,  and  grew  more  beautiful  to  behold  with  every  circuit 
of  the  seasons,  so  that  all  the  young  men  of  the  town  became  her  suitors 
and  applied  to  the  Tayac  Chicamec  for  her  hand.  But  the  evil  spirits  put 


[  606  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

a  torch  to  the  Tape's  heart,,  and  albeit  he  was  then  in  his  forty-fourth  sum- 
mer, and  she  in  her  fifteenth,  he  was  possessed  with  love  for  her  and  desired 
her  for  his  own.  The  fire  mounted  to  his  head,  and  caused  him  to  be- 
lieve that  inasmuch  as  the  blood  of  the  Princess  was  mixed  in  the  same 
manner  as  his  own,  he  could  father  sons  upon  her  whose  skins  would  have 
the  color  of  their  parents'.  To  this  end  he  sent  away  the  suitors  and  re- 
vealed to  the  Princess  that  albeit  he  had  raised  her  as  his  own,  she  was 
not  in  fact  the  daughter  of  his  loins,  and  he  meant  to  have  her  for  his 
Queen.  Greatly  did  the  girl  protest,  whether  because  she  had  some  favorite 
amongst  the  young  men  of  the  town  or  because  she  was  wont  to  think 
of  the  Tayac  Chicamec  as  her  father;  but  such  is  the  power  of  the  vengeful 
gods,  her  tears  were  merely  fuel  for  the  Tayac's  passion,  and  he  who  had 
lived  long  years  without  a  wife  grew  so " 

Drepacca  too  had  to  reflect  for  a  moment  before  he  could  supply  an 
English  approximation.  "Enthralled?  Nay,  not  as  a  slave  f  .  .  To  be  help- 
less, but  not  as  one  in  shackles  .  .  ." 

"Driven?9'  Ebenezer  suggested  quickly.  "Exalted?  Overmastered?"  Chic- 
amec's  nostrils  flared  with  impatience  at  the  delay. 

"He  was  driven  with  lust,"  Quassapelagh  declared,  nodding  acknowledg- 
ment to  the  poet  "So  much  so,  that  he  shook  in  every  limb  like  a  beast 
in  season.  Now  the  Secret  of  the  Sacred  Egg-plant,  whereby  Queen 
Pokatawertussan  was  destroyed,  had  perished  with  her  heavenly  spouse,  but 
the  Tayae  Chicamec  had  no  need  of  it,  being  a  man  in  all  his  parts.  When 
the  maid  sought  to  move  his  pity  by  kneeling  at  his  feet,  he  could  no 
longer  wait  to  make  her  his  Queen.  Nay,  he  climbed  her  then  and  there, 
and  in  the  night  that  followed  filled  her  with  his  seedl" 

Although  Quassapelagh  had  remained  impassive  as  he  translated,  Chic- 
aniec's  voice  had  grown  excited;  his  breath  was  coming  faster,  and  his 
old  eyes  shone.  Now  he  paused,  and  his  face  and  tone  grew  stern  again. 

"In  the  morning,  unknown  to  all,  she  was  already  with  child,  and  the 
Tayac  made  her  his  Queen.  The  evil  spirit  that  had  possessed  him  now 
left  his  head  at  last,  and  all  the  while  her  belly  grew  he  did  not  touch 
her  again,  for  shame,  and  trembled  lest  she  bear  a  white-skinned  boy  for 
him  to  slay.  But  strange  and  far-reaching  is  the  vengeance  of  the  gods! 
She  bore  him  a  fine  dark  son,  a  very  prince  among  Ahatchwhoops,  a  man- 
child  perfect  in  every  wise  save  one,  which  the  Tayac  observed  at  once 
the  boy  had  .  .  " 

"Inherited." 

".  .  .  had  inherited  from  his  grandsire  Henry  Burlingame  One— tibe  single 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  607  ] 

defect  of  that  lordly  man;  and  it  was  clear,  his  grandsire's  Secret  of  the 
Holy  Egg-plant  being  lost,  this  boy  would  ne'er  be  able  to  carry  on  the 
royal  line.  For  that  reason  he  was  not  called  Henry  Burlingame  Three, 
but  Mattassinemarough,  which  is  to  say,  Man  of  Copper;  and  for  this 
reason  as  well,  albeit  the  lust  was  gone  out  of  him,  the  Tayac  Chicamec 
durst  force  his  Queen  a  second  time,  and  plied  her  with  seed  the  night 
through  to  get  another  son  on  her.  And  again  he  trembled  lest  she  bring 
forth  a  white  child  for  him  to  slay,  and  did  not  go  in  to  her  the  while  her 
belly  rose  beneath  her  coats.  As  before,  the  Queen  was  brought  to  bed 
of  a  son,  this  one  neither  dark  as  the  dark  Ahatchwhoops  nor  white  as 
the  English  Devils,  but  the  flawless  golden  image  of  its  father,  save  for 
one  thing:  like  his  brother  Mattassin  he  had  not  the  veriest  shadow  of  that 
which  makes  men  men,  and  since  none  but  God  imparts  to  men  the  Mys- 
teries of  the  Egg-plant,  this  boy  could  never  in  a  hundred  summers  get 
grandsons  for  the  Tayac  Chicamec.  Thus  he  was  not  called  Henry  Bur- 
lingame Three,  but  Cohunkowprets,  which  is  to  say,  Bill-o'-the-Goose,  for- 
asmuch as  his  mother  the  Queen,  on  first  beholding  his  want  of  manliness, 
declared  A  goose  hath  pecked  him;  and  farther,  She  -would  that  goose  had 
spared  the  son  and  dined  upon  the  father. 

"But  the  Tayac  Chicamec  waited  for  the  Queen  to  gather  her  strength, 
and  a  third  time  drove  her  with  the  seed  that  brings  forth  men;  and  until 
the  harvest  he  trembled  like  an  aspen  in  the  storm.  But  the  third  son 
of  his  loins  was  neither  dark  like  Mattassinemarough,  nor  yet  golden  like 
Cohunkowprets,  but  white  as  an  English  sail  from  head  to  foot,  and  his 
eyes  not  black  but  blue  as  the  Chesapeake!  He  was  his  grandsire  bom 
again,  e'en  to  that  defect  shared  by  his  brothers,  and  albeit  the  gods  might 
have  seen  fit  to  impart  to  the  boy  the  Secret  of  the  Holy  Egg-plant,  as 
they  had  imparted  it  to  his  divine  grandsire,  there  was  naught  for  it  but 
the  Tayac  Chicamec  must  fulfill  his  awful  vow  and  slay  the  boy  for  an 
English  Devil ... 

"Mark  how  the  sinner  pays  thrice  o'er  for  his  sinf  When  the  Tayac  Chic- 
amec declared  to  the  town  that  the  white-skinned  child  must  die,  the  Queen 
snatched  up  a  spear,  flung  herself  upon  it,  and  perished  rather  than  witness 
the  new  babe's  slaying  or  bear  another  child  to  take  its  place.  But  the 
Tayac  Chicamec  fetched  the  white-skinned  prince  alone  to  the  waterside 
to  drown  him,  and  his  heart  was  heavy  in  his  breast.  The  Queen  was  dead, 
that  he  thrice  had  ravished  in  vain,  nor  durst  he  get  children  on  the  con- 
cubines who  would  share  his  bed  thenceforth,  but  sow  his  murtherous  seed 
in  the  empty  air.  And  at  last  he  was  not  able  to  drown  the  child;  instead 


[608]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

he  painted  with  red  ochre  on  its  chest  the  signs  he  had  learnt  from  his 
father  and  The  Book  of  English  Devils:  HENRY  BURLINGAME  III; 
then  he  laid  the  boy  in  the  bottom  of  a  canoe  and  sent  him  down  the 
mighty  Chesapeake  on  the  tide.  And  he  prayed  to  the  spirit  of  the  Tayac 
Henry  Burlingame  One  to  spare  the  child  from  drowning  and  impart  to 
him  the  Magic  of  the  Sacred  Egg-plant,  that  he  might  further  the  royal 
bloodline — even  if  amongst  the  English  Devils/' 

"I'God!"  Ebenezer  marveled.  "  Tis  the  state  the  sea  captain  found  him 
in,  and  the  very  time  and  place!"  Yet  though  he  remembered  Mary  Mun- 
gummory's  tale  of  her  singular  love  affair  with  Charley  Mattassin— a  tale 
which  not  till  now  could  he  fully  appreciate— and  also  certain  startling  as- 
sertions of  Henry's— for  example,  that  he  had  never  made  actual  "love"  to 
Anna— nonetheless  he  found  this  "certain  defect"  of  Chicamec's  offspring 
roost  difficult  to  reconcile  with  the  staggering  sexuality  of  his  friend  and 
former  tutor.  There  was  much  yet  to  be  explained. 
.  "The  Tayac  Chicamec  enquires  of  Quassapelagh's  brother/'  Drepacca 
said,  "whether  the  man  you  call  Henry  Burlingame  Three  hath  many  sons 
in  his  house?" 

Ebenezer  was  on  tie  verge  of  a  negative  reply,  but  he  suddenly  changed 
his  mind  and  said  instead,  "Henry  Burlingame  Three  was  still  a  young 
man  when  he  tutored  me,  but  albeit  I  know  where  he  dwells,  I've  not 
seen  him  these  several  years.  Yet  I  know  him  for  a  famous  lover  of  women, 
and  'tis  quite  likely  he  hath  a  tribe  of  sons  and  daughters."  In  fact  there 
had  occurred  to  him  the  dim  suggestion  of  a  plan  to  save  his  companions 
as  well  as  himself;  not  so  rash  as  before,  he  pondered  and  revised  it  as 
Chicamec,  evidently  disappointed  by  the  reply,  concluded  his  narration 
through  the  medium  of  Quassapelagh, 

"In  the  years  that  followed,  the  Tayac  Chicamec  raised  his  other  sons 
to  manhood,  the  dark-skinned  Mattassin  and  the  golden  Cohunkowprets; 
and  for  all  their  sore  defect  they  grew  strong  and  straight  as  two  pine 
trees  of  their  country,  bold  as  the  bears  who  raid  the  hunter's  camp,  cunning 
as  the  raccoons,  tireless  as  the  hawks  of  the  air,  and  steadfast-steadfast  as 
the  snapping-turtle,  foe  to  waterfowl,  that  will  lose  his  life  ere  he  loose 
his  jaws,  and  e'en  when  his  head  is  severed,  bite  on  in  death!" 

The  old  chiefs  voice  had  rung  with  pride  until  this  final  attribution, 

which  evidently  gave  him  pain;  such  tenacity  of  purpose^  it  seemed  to 

Ebenezer,  he  regarded  as  a  most  ambivalent  trait  Now  the  furrows  of 

his^face  winced  deeper,  and  he  spoke  more  broodingjy. 

"Who  knows  what  deeds  the  gods  regard  as  crimes,"  Quassapelagh  trans- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [609] 

lated,  "until  they  take  revenge?  Was't  so  grave  a  sin  to  raise  the  daughter 
of  the  English  Devil  in  the  Tayac's  house  and  get  sons  upon  her  when 
she  came  of  age?  Or  was't  a  fresh  sin  that  he  vowed  to  slay  his  white-skinned 
child,  and  drove  the  Queen  to  fall  upon  a  spear?  If  either  be  sin,  is  not 
the  other  its  atonement?  Or  was  his  new  crime  that  he  spared  the  boy  at 
last,  and  he  hath  lived?  One  thing  alone  is  given  man  to  know:  whatever 
his  sins,  they  must  perforce  be  grievous,  for  terrible  is  the  punishment  he 
suffers,  and  unending!  'Twas  not  enough  the  Tayac  flung  his  third  son  to 
the  waves,  and  lost  his  Queen,  and  saw  his  line  doomed  to  perish  from 
the  land;  nay,  he  must  lose  more,  lose  all— lose  e'en  his  stalwart,  seedless 
sons  that  did  so  please  him  with  their  strength,  and  that  he  hoped  would 
lead  the  Ahatchwhoops  in  their  war  against  the  English  Devils!  Mattassin 
and  Cohunkowprets!  Did  he  not  school  them  day  by  day  to  hate  the 
English?  Did  he  not  rehearse  them  in  The  Book  of  English  Devils  and 
recount  the  warlike  passions  of  their  grandsire?  And  they  were  not  hot- 
blooded  boys,  or  dogs  in  season,  that  blind  with  lust  will  mount  a  bitch 
or  a  bulrush  basket,  whichever  falls  into  their  path;  nay,  they  were  grown 
men  of  well-nigh  two-score  summers,  canny  fellows,  sound  of  judgment, 
and  swore  they  loathed  the  English  as  did  their  father!  None  were  more 
ready  than  they  to  league  our  cause  with  the  cause  of  the  Piscataways  and 
Nanticokes;  when  the  first  black  slave  escaped  to  this  island  'twas  Mattassin 
himself  bade  him  welcome  and  made  this  town  a  haven  for  all  who  fled 
the  English;  and  'twas  not  the  Tayac  Chicamec  that  first  hit  on  the  plan 
of  joining  forces  with  the  man  Casteene  and  the  naked  warriors  of  the 
north  to  drive  the  English  into  the  sea—'twas  golden  Cohunkowprets:  wife- 
less, childless,  and  athirst  for  battle!  Piscataways,  Nanticokes,  Chopticoes, 
Mattawomans— all  men  envied  the  Ahatchwhoops,  that  boasted  such  a  pair 
of  mighty  chieftains;  and  Chicamec,  too  old  to  leave  the  island  for  the 
first  great  meeting  of  our  leaders— was  he  not  proud  to  send  Mattassin  in 
his  stead?" 

The  Tayac  Chicamec  paused,  overcome  with  bitter  memory,  and  Eben- 
ezer  tactfully  observed  that  he  was  familiar  with  the  subsequent  course  of 
Mattassin's  life,  from  the  Indian's  encounter  with  Mary  Mungummory  to 
his  execution  for  murdering  her  sister  Katy,  the  wife  of  Mynheer  Tick. 
At  the  same  time,  since  the  information  might  have  some  bearing  on 
his  nebulous  plan,  he  professed  great  curiosity  about  the  other  son,  Cohun- 
kowprets: surely  he  too  had  not  been  hanged  for  murdering  English  Devils? 

"They  have  not  hanged  him,"  Chicamec  said  through  Quassapelagh,  and 
at  no  time  thitherto  had  his  malice  so  contorted  every  feature.  "Their 


[  6lO  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

crime  against  Cohunkowprets  is  more  heinous  ten  times  o'er  than  their 
crime  against  Mattassin.  Beautiful,  golden  son!  Him  too  the  Tayac  Chica- 
mec  dispatched,  but  one  full  moon  ago,  upon  an  errand  of  great  im- 
portance: to  go  north  with  Drepacca  and  make  treaties  with  the  man  Cas- 
teene;  him  too  the  gods  saw  fit  to  lure  from  his  goal,  and  in  the  same 
wise,  despite  the  sternest  counsels  of  Drepacca  .  .  ." 

He  had  previously  spoken  of  the  Negro  element  in  the  town  as  one  would 
speak  of  a  blessing  by  no  means  unalloyed,  and  had  mentioned  his  allies' 
envy  of  his  sons.  It  now  became  clear  to  Ebenezer  that  Chicamec's  par- 
tiality to  Quassapelagh  was  not  only,  as  it  were,  skin  deep:  it  masked  a 
deep  distrust  of  the  Africans,  and  especially  of  Drepacca,  and  dated,  ap- 
parently, from  this  embassy  to  Monsieur  Casteene,  the  much-feared  secret 
agent  of  the  French.  Indeed,  the  poet  went  so  far  as  to  speculate  that 
Chicamec  held  Drepacca  in  some  way  responsible  for  Cohunkowprets' s  de- 
fection: perhaps  those  "sternest  counsels'*  were  not  of  the  sort  a  loyal  ally 
should  give?  Or  the  truly  remarkable  similarity  of  the  brothers'  seduction  by 
English  women— was  it  possible  that  Chicamec  regarded  it  as  more  than 
an  astonishing  coincidence? 

"In  short/'  Quassapelagh  went  on,  "King  Drepacca  was  obliged  to  leave 
Cohunkowprets  on  the  mainland  near  the  Little  Choptank,  with  the  white- 
skinned  woman  he  lusted  after,  and  the  Tayac  Chicamec  hath  not  seen 
his  son  these  many  days." 

"A  wondrous  likeness  of  misfortune/'  Ebenezer  sympathized,  "and  a 
sorry  shame  in  itself!  But  what  is  this  heinous  crime  the  Tayac  speaks  of?" 

"I  had  best  answer  that  myself/'  Quassapelagh  replied,  "and  not  rouse 
farther  the  Tayac  Chicamec's  wrath.  Rumor  hath  it  that  Cohunkowprets 
hath  taken  an  English  name  and  married  an  English  wife;  he  lives  amongst 
the  English  in  an  English  house,  speaks  their  tongue,  and  wears  their 
clothes.  He  is  no  longer  an  Ahatchwhoop  in  any  wise,  but  looks  upon  his 
people  with  contempt,  and  for  aught  we  know  may  betray  us  to  the  English 
king." 

At  this  point  Chicamec,  who  had  held  his  peace  impatiently  for  some 
moments,  began  to  speak  again,  and  Quassapelagh  was  obliged  to  resume 
the  labors  of  translation. 

"Behold  him  now,  the  Tayac  Chicamec,"  he  said,  "his  body  enfeebled 
by  the  cares  of  four-score  summers,  his  island  peopled  with  strangers  and 
ringed  round  by  English  Devils,  his  ancient  dream  of  battle  in  the  charge 
of  outland  kings,  his  honor  mired  and  smirched  by  faithless  sons,  and  his 
royal  line  doomed  to  perish  in  his  person!  The  brother  of  Quassapelagh 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  6ll  ] 

must  tell  his  friends  these  things  if  they  ask  him  for  what  cause  they  lose 
their  members  and  go  to  the  torch;  the  brother  of  Quassapelagh  must  seek 
out  the  man  called  Henry  Burlingame  Three  and  tell  him  these  things, 
and  tell  him  farther  to  flee  the  land  at  once—with  his  sons,  if  he  hath  any; 
for  already  the  Tayac  Chicamec  hath  defied  the  gods  to  save  him,  but  now 
every  English  Devil  in  the  countryside  must  die!" 


9:  AT  LEAST  ONE  OF  THE  PREGNANT  MYSTERIES  IS 
BROUGHT  TO  BED,  WITH  FULL  MEASURE  OF  TRAVAIL, 
BUT  NOT  AS  YET  DELIVERED  TO  THE  LIGHT 


EBENEZER  HAD  NOW  NO  DOUBTS  AS  TO  THE  MAIN  LINES  OF  HIS  PLAN, 

though  its  efficacy  was  moot  and  he  had  no  boundless  faith  in  his  courage 
to  propose  it.  He  spoke  at  once,  before  his  imagination  drowned  him  in 
alternatives  and  fears, 

'This  errand  that  the  Tayac  Chicamec  sets  me,  dear  Quassapelagh— is  it 
a  condition  of  my  freedom?" 

The  latter  phrase  required  some  moments,  and  Drepacca's  assistance,  for 
translation,  and  occasioned  some  further  moments  of  discussion  in  Indian 
language,  during  which  the  poet's  resolve  bid  fair  to  waver.  Finally  Drepacca 
ventured,  "Nothing  is  a  true  condition  that  cannot  be  enforced.  We  agree, 
however,  that  if  you  are  in  sooth  a  brother  of  Quassapelagh,,  you  will  not 
shirk  this  errand." 

Ebenezer  steeled  his  nerve.  "If  the  Tayac  Chicamec  murthers  my  three 
friends,  I  will  carry  no  message  to  Henry  Burlingame  Three»  for  the  reason 
that  I  shall  die  with  them  here.  Tell  this  to  him." 

"My  brother "  Quassapelagh  protested,  but  Drepacca  translated  the 

declaration.  Chicamec's  eyes  flashed  anger  and  then  towered  to  an  expres- 
sion as  a  flinty  disappointment 

"Howbeit,"  the  poet  continued,  "if  the  Tayac  Chicamec  sees  fit  to  concur 
with  the  merciful  opinion  of  his  wise  and  powerful  fellow  kings  and  set 
the  four  of  us  free,  I  pledge  him  this:  I  will  go  to  Henry  Burlingame  Three 
and  tell  him  the  story  of  his  royal  birth  and  the  father  who  saved  his  life; 
moreover  I  will  bring  him  here,  to  this  island,  to  see  the  Tayac  Chicamec. 
He  knows  the  tongues  of  Piscataway  and  Nanticoke;  father  and  son  can 
converse  alone,  without  interpreters." 


[  6l2  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

All  these  things  filled  Quassapelagh  and  Drepacca  with  surprise;  they 
translated  in  fits  and  starts  and  exchanged  impassive  glances.  Lest  they  dis- 
tort his  message  through  astonishment  or  apprehension,  however,  Ebenezer 
had  risen  to  his  feet  and  delivered  it  at  close  range,  in  a  clear  deliberate 
voice,  to  the  aged  king  himself,  accompanying  the  English  words  with  un- 
mistakable emphases  and  gestures:  "I— bring  Henry  Burlingame  Three— 
here— to  Chicamec.  Chicamec  and  Henry  Burlingame  Three — talk— talk— 
talk.  No  Quassapelagfi.  No  Drepacca.  Chicamec  and  Henry  Burlingame 
Three— talk.  And  just  to  demonstrate  my  good  faith,  sirs:  I  will  tell  Henry 
Burlingame  Three  to  look— look— look  for  his  brother  Cohunkowprets. 
Henry  Burlingame  Three  will  find  Cohunkowprets  and  talk— talk— talk, 
and  haply  he'll  show  him  the  error  of  his  ways.  How  would  that  strike  you, 
old  fellow?  Chicanwc  here;  Cohunkowprets  here;  Henry  Burlingame  Three 
right  here!" 

Whether  he  understood  the  conditions  or  not,  Chicamec  grasped  enough 
of  the  proposal  to  make  him  chatter  feverishly  at  Quassapelagh. 

"I  thought  'twould  not  displease  you,"  Ebenezer  said  grimly,  and 
resumed  his  seat.  "But  tell  him  'tis  all  four  of  us  or  none,"  he  added  to 
Quassapelagh.  Now  that  his  bid  was  made  he  nearly  swooned  at  the  bold- 
ness of  it.  Bertrand  and  John  McEvoy,  who  had  heard  the  lengthy  tales  in 
sick  despair,  came  alive  again,  their  faces  squinted  with  suspense. 

Some  debate  ensued,  by  the  sound  of  it  not  sharply  controversial,  and  at 
the  end  Quassapelagh  said,  "My  brother  will  not  lightly  be  cured  of  his 
foolhardiness  when  he  learns  it  hath  succeeded." 

"I'Christ!  Do  you  mean  we're  free?" 

"The  Tayac  Chicamec  yearns  to  behold  his  long-lost  son,"  Drepacca  de- 
clared, in  the  same  sternly  proud  tone  used  by  Quassapelagh,  "and  albeit 
he  hath  disowned  his  son  Cohunkowprets,  he  counts  an  errant  son  as 
better  than  no  son  at  all,  and  so  will  entertain  entreaties  for  his  pardon. 
The  brother  of  Quassapelagh  will  be  carried  by  canoe  across  the  straits  and 
given  one  full  moon  to  make  good  his  pledge;  the  others  will  remain  here 
as  hostages.  If  at  the  end  of  that  time  he  hath  produced  neither 
Cohunkowprets  nor  Henry  Burlingame  Three,  the  hostages  will  die." 
The  faces  of  the  Englishmen  fell. 

"Ah,  nay!"  the  poet  objected.  "If  the  Tayac  Chicamec  hath  no  faith  in 

me,  let  him  slay  me;  if  he  trusts  me,  why,  there  is  no  need  of  hostages." 

Chicamec  smiled  upon  receiving  this  protest  and  countered  that  if  the 

brother  of  Quassapelagh  made  his  promises  in  good  faith,  he  need  not  fear 

for  the  safety  of  the  hostages. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [613] 

"Very  well,"  Ebenezer  said  desperately.  ""But  one  companion,  at  least, 
you  must  permit  me,  if  you  mean  to  limit  my  time.  Suppose  I  lose  my  way 
on  the  mainland,  where  I'm  a  stranger?  Suppose  Henry  Burlingame  Three 
is  not  at  home,  and  I  must  seek  -him  elsewhere,  or  suppose  he  insists  we 
find  Cohunkowprets  before  we  return  here?  Two  men  travel  faster  than 
one  on  an  errand  like  this." 

Quassapelagh  frowned.  "There  is  reason  in  what  you  say.  Two  hostages, 
then,  instead  of  three." 

"And  your  servant,  my  savior  Bertrand,  for  your  companion,"  Drepacca 
added,  "lest  your  time  run  out." 

"Aye,"  Bertrand  cried,  speaking  up  at  last,  "I  swear  I  am  a  very  blood- 
hound for  finding  folk,  and  this  fellow  Burlingame  is  e'en  indebted  to  me 
for  some  small  favors.  'Sheart,  we'd  find  the  twain  of  'em  right  off,  Master 
Eben  and  I!" 

Chicamec  nudged  and  scolded  until  the  bargaining  was  translated  for 
his  approval;  then  he  frowned,  but  did  not  openly  protest  the  new 
amendment. 

Ebenezer  laid  a  hand  on  his  valet's  arm  and  addressed  Drepacca.  "This 
man  hath  been  some  time  my  servant,  and  was  my  father's  before  in  Eng- 
land. He  hath  divers  times  betrayed  or  otherwise  deceived  me,  yet  for  the 
sake  more  of  expediency  than  of  malice,  and  I  bear  him  no  ill  will  for't. 
Indeed,  we  are  bound  to  each  other  by  an  Iliad  of  common  tribulations, 
and  I  shan't  e'er  see  him  perish  while  my  own  skin  is  still  whole.  But  he  is 
given  to  presumptuousness  and  fear,  and  succumbs  to  opportunity  like  a 
toper  to  strong  drink;  I  dare  not  trust  this  errand  to  his  hands." 

Bertrand  was  aghast,  but  before  he  could  muster  more  than  a  faint 
B'm'faith,  Ebenezer  was  pointing  to  McEvoy  and  had  proceeded  with  his 
statement. 

"This  man  here  was  once  my  enemy,  and  whatever  injury  I  have  done 
him  accidentally,  he  hath  repaid  threefold  a-purpose.  Yet  all  he  did,  he  did 
on  principle,,  nor  e'er  hath  stooped  to  dissembling  or  other  fraud.  Moreover 
he  is  the  soul  of  courage  and  resourcefulness,  and  our  differences  are  behind 
us.  If  two  of  us  must  scour  the  Province  for  Burlingame  and  Cohunkowprets 
to  save  the  other  two,  'twere  to  our  best  interest  and  Chicamec's  as  well 
that  I  choose  this  man  to  go  with  me.n 

On  this  proposal  neither  Chicamec  nor  Quassapelagh  ventured  a  judg- 
ment; by  tacit  consent  the  decision  was  left  to  Drepacca,  as  the  man  whose 
interest  in  the  case  was  greatest,  and  after  considering  Ebenezer  and  the 
dumfounded  McEvoy  carefully  with  his  eyes,  the  African  king  nodded  ap- 


[614]  TEE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

proval.  It  was  decided  that  the  prisoners  should  return  to  their  quarters 
until  the  midday  meal,  whereafter  the  two  fortunates  would  be  ferried  across 
Limbo  Straits  to  the  mainland  of  Dorchester  County;  the  remaining  pair 
would  be  preserved  from  any  injury  or  molestation  for  one  lunar  month 
and  set  free  at  any  time  before  that  term  if  either  Burlingame  or  a  repentant 
Cohunkowprets  appeared  on  the  island. 

"  'Tis  but  a  hoax  and  treachery!*'  Bertrvid  complained  to  Ebenezer.  "Is 
this  my  reward  for  all  I've  suffered  on  your  account?  D'ye  repay  an  old 
friend  thus,  and  trusty  servant— practically  your  adviser,  by  your  father's 
own  commission?  Ye'll  murther  your  only  friend  to  save  that  lying  pimp 
McEvoy?"  Tears  of  self-commiseration  welled  in  his  eyes. 

"Nay,  friend,"  Ebenezer  answered,  putting  his  arm  about  Bertrand's 
shoulders  as  the  guards  escorted  them  from  the  royal  hut.  "If  'twere  a  ruse 
I  should  choose  you,  but  'tis  not,  I  swear.  I  mean  to  ransom  all  of  us,  as  I 
pledged/' 

"Ah,  'tis  easy  for  you  to  make  grand  vows,  that  will  live  in  any  case! 
How  will  ye  find  Burlingame,  that  doth  naught  but  sneak  about  the 
Province  in  the  guise  of  John  Coode,  or  this  other  salvage,  that  ye  ne'er 
kid  eyes  upon?  And  e'en  should  ye  stumble  on  'em  in  yonder  marsh  across 
the  straits,  d'ye  think  they'll  give  themselves  up  to  these  imps  o'  Hell?  But 
'tis  no  worry  of  yours,  what  happens  to  the  man  who  once  saved  your  life!" 
Ebenezer  could  not,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  recall  any  such  salvation,  but  he 
let  the  claim  stand  unchallenged.  "Prithee  don't  mistrust  me,  Bertrand;  if 
I  can't  make  good  my  pledge  in  the  time  allowed,  you'll  see  me  trussed 
beside  you  on  yonder  stakes." 

The  valet  snorted.  "I  doubt  it  not,  thou'rt  so  prone  to  folly!  But  we 
shan't  see  McEvoy  there,  ye  may  wager,  and  ye'd  not  see  me  were  I  in  his 
boots!" 

Seeing  that  he  would  not  be  consoled,  Ebenezer  said  no  more,  though 
Bertrand's  bitterness  gave  him  pain.  They  paused  at  the  center  of  the  com- 
mon while  the  guards  freed  Captain  Cairn  from  his  post  Unstrung  by 
fatigue,  cramped  muscles,  terror,  and  incredulity,  the  old  man  could  not 
stand  unaided;  Ebenezer  and  McEvoy  bore  him  to  the  prison-hut  much 
as  Qaassapelagh  and  Drepacca  had  earlier  borne  the  Tayac  Chicamec  be- 
tween them.  And  whether  because  the  ordeal  had  impaired  his  understand- 
ing or  because  the  reprieve  was  by  contrast  too  gross  an  anticlimax  for 
rejoicing,  he  displayed  no  emotion  at  all  when  McEvoy  told  him  the  news. 
Nor  did  McEvoy  himself  make  any  comment  on  the  turn  of  events  until 
some  two  hours  later,  when  he  and  Ebenezer  had  bid  farewell  to  the  listless 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [615 

Captain-  -and  the  still-acrimonious  valet  and  had  been  ferried  to  a  marshy 
point  of  land  north  of  the  island,  the  southernmost  extremity  of  Dorset, 
where  Limbo  Straits  joined  the  Chesapeake  to  a  broad  and  choppy  sound. 
There  the  two  were  put  ashore  at  what  appeared  to  be  a  long-abandoned 
pier,  buckled  by  ice  and  half  consumed  by  dry  rot,  and  were  left  to  make 
the  best  of  their  way  on  foot. 

"We're  in  luck,"  the  Irishman  said  soberly.  "This  is  the  very  road  Bandy 
Lou  and  I  came  down  to  reach  the  island.  Tis  half  a  hundred  miles  from 
here  to  Cambridge,  but  ye  can't  mistake  the  path,  and  there's  farms  and 
trapper's  cabins  along  the  way." 

"Thank  Heav'n  for  that,"  Ebenezer  replied;  "we've  no  time  to  lose.  Tis 
more  likely  Burlingame's  in  St.  Mary's  than  in  Cambridge,  but  haply  we'll 
find  this  Cohunkowprets  by  the  way,  if  we  enquire  enough." 

They  walked  up  the  muddy  road  for  a  while  in  silence,  engaged  in 
separate  reflections.  The  afternoon  was  warm  for  late  December,  but  by  no 
means  balmy.  On  every  hand  the  salt  marsh  and  open  water  extended  flat 
to  the  horizon:  brown  marsh  grass  and  cattails  rustled  in  the  wet  west  wind; 
rails  and  pipers  picked  for  food  along  the  mud  flats,  and  from  nests  in  the 
silvered  limbs  of  salt-cured  pines,  ospreys  and  eagles  rose  and  hung  on  the 
breeze. 

Ebenezer  did  not  fail  to  observe  that  his  companion's  spirit  was  in  some 
way  troubled,  and  assumed,  not  without  a  certain  satisfaction,  that 
McEvoy's  problem  had  to  do  with  the  proper  way  of  expressing  his  gratitude 
and  obligation;  but  he  left  it  to  the  Irishman  to  take  the  initiative  in  speak- 
ing his  mind.  Indeed,  Ebenezer's  own  spirit  was  far  from  tranquil;  he 
reacted  against  the  boldness  of  his  stratagem,  for  one  thing,  now  that  he 
was  committed  to  it:  with  no  food,  no  money,  no  means  of  transportation, 
and  no  more  than  a  general  notion  of  their  quarry's  whereabouts,  how 
could  they  dream  of  succeeding  in  their  quest?  Moreover,  now  that  he  was 
out  of  immediate  peril  all  his  former  problems  and  anxieties  reasserted 
themselves  sharply:  the  loss  of  his  estate,  his  desertion  of  Joan  Toast,  his 
father's  wrath,  his  sister's  safety  ...  It  was  too  much:  despair  stretched 
brown  about  him  like  the  salt  marsh,  unrelieved  to  his  fancy's  far  horizons. 

McEvoy  had  found  a  walking  stick  in  the  path;  now  he  swung  and 
bobbed  a  cattail  with  it. 

"Marry  come  up!"  he  swore.  "I  am  unmanned  in  any  case!" 

"Eh?"  Ebenezer  looked  over  in  surprise.  "How's  that?" 

McEvoy  scowled  and  slashed  at  another  cattail.  "Ye  saved  my  life,  that's 
how  it  is,  and  I'm  eternally  beholden  fort!  What's  worse,  ye'd  every  cause 


[616]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

to  hate  me;  I  was  owing  to  ye  already  for  what  I've  put  ye  to.  But  ye  save 
my  life  instead!"  He  was  unable  to  raise  his  eyes  to  Ebenezer's.  "I'faith, 
how  can  a  man  live  with't?  If  the  salvages  had  gelded  me,  at  least  I  could 
have  hollowed  like  a  hero  and  died  soon  after;  here  ye've  gelded  me  none- 
theless, but  I  must  grovel  and  sing  your  praises  for't,  and  live  a  steer's  life 
till  Heav'n  knows  when!" 

"But  that's  absurd!"  the  blushing  poet  protested.  'How  can  you  believe 
I  want  to  humble  you?  Twas  a  practical  expedient;  not  a  favor." 

McEvoy  shook  his  head.  "Ye've  no  need  to  go  on  thus;  'tis  my  con- 
science makes  me  grovel,  not  you,  and  the  more  ye  protest  I'm  not 
beholden,  the  deeper  I  sink  in  the  Slough  of  Obligation.  I  must  love  ye, 
says  my  conscience,  and  that  voice  makes  me  despise  ye,  and  that  despisal 
makes  me  farther  loathe  myself  for  crass  ingratitude." 

"Ah,  prithee,  don't  whip  yourself  so!  Put  by  these  thoughts!" 

"There  I  sink,  another  hand's-breadth  in  the  Mire!"  McEvoy  grumbled, 
keeping  his  eyes  averted.  "If  only  ye'd  call  for  gratitude  o'ermuch,  I  might 
hate  ye  and  have  done  with't!  As't  is,  I  am  fair  snared,  a  fawning  castrato." 

Up  to  this  point  the  poet  had  been  more  embarrassed  than  annoyed,  for 
McEvby's  confession  made  him  realize  that  he  had  in  fact  enjoyed,  most 
unchristianly,  a  feeling  of  moral  superiority  to  his  comrade  in  consequence 
of  having  saved  the  fellow's  life.  His  magnanimous  gesture  had  indeed  been 
more  than  just  expedient  to  his  mission,  and  though  he  sincerely  wished 
that  McEvoy  would  give  over  this  self-flagellation,  he  also— and,  as  it  were, 
contradictorily— sincerely  enjoyed  urging  him  do  so.  But  now  his  embar- 
rassment was  supplanted  by  irritation,  perhaps  directed  at  himself  as  much 
as  at  McEvoy;  he  too  fetched  up  a  walking  stick,  and  laid  low  a  brace  of 
cattails  on  his  side  of  the  path. 

"Henry  Burlingame  once  told  me,"  he  said  coldly,  "that  in  ethical 
philosophy  the  schoolmen  speak  of  moralities  of  motive  and  moralities  of 
deed.  By  which  they  mean,  a  wight  may  do  a  good  deed  for  a  bad  reason, 
or  an  ill  deed  with  good  intentions."  He  unstrung  another  cattail  and 
slashed  at  a  fourth.  "Now,  'tis  e'er  the  wont  of  simple  folk  to  prize  the 
deed  and  o'erlook  the  motive,  and  of  learned  folk  to  discount  the  deed  and 
lay  open  the  soul  of  the  doer.  Burlingame  declared  the  difference  'twixt 
sour  pessimist  and  proper  gentleman  lies  just  here:  that  the  one  will  judge 
good  deeds  by  a  morality  of  motive  and  ill  by  a  morality  of  deed,  and  so 
condemn  the  twain  together,  whereas  your  gentleman  doth  the  reverse, 
and  hath  always  grounds  to  pardon  his  wayward  fellows." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [617] 

"Tis  all  profound,  I'm  sure/'  McEvoy  began,  "but  how  it  bears 
upon " 

"Hear  me  out,"  Ebenezer  broke  in;  he  was  surprised,  but  by  no  means 
displeased,  by  his  own  insistence.  "The  point  oft  is,  methinks  I  see  two 
pathways  from  this  silly  mire  you  wallow  in.  The  first  is  to  appraise  whate'er 
I  say  and  do  from  a  morality  of  motive,  and  you'll  find  grounds  for  more 
contempt  than  gratitude:  I  chose  you  in  lieu  of  Bertrand  purely  for  revenge, 
to  make  you  roast  in  the  fire  of  conscience  and  to  even  the  score  for 
Bertrand's  past  offenses;  I  urge  you  not  to  thank  me  overmuch,  to  the  end 
of  driving  you  to  thank  me  all  the  more  .  .  ," 

McEvoy  sighed.  "D'ye  think  I've  not  clutched  at  that  broomstraw 
already?" 

"Aha.  And  to  no  avail?  Thou'rt  still  unmanned  by  gratitude?"  Swish 
went  the  stick,  and  another  cattail  dangled  from  its  stalk.  "Then  here's 
your  other  pathway,  friend:  turn  your  morality  of  motive  upon  yourself, 
and  see  that  behind  this  false  predicament  lies  simple  cowardice." 

The  Irishman  looked  up  for  the  first  time,  his  eyes  flashing  angrily.  "What 
drivel  is  this?" 

"Aye,  cowardice"  Ebenezer  declared.  "Why  is't  you  make  no  move  to 
second  my  pledge  to  Chicamec?  Forget  this  casuistry  of  who's  obliged  to 
whom  and  mortgage  your  life  along  with  mine!  Bind  yourself  to  come 
hither  with  me  one  month  from  now,  when  our  quest  hath  borne  no  fruit, 
and  we'll  commend  ourselves  together  to  Chicamec's  mercies!  How  doth 
that  strike  you,  eh?  A  fart  for  these  airy  little  gonads  of  the  soul;  lay  your 
flesh-and-blood  privates  on  the  line,  as  I  have,  and  we're  quit  for  all 
eternity!"  He  laughed  and  slashed  triumphantly  with  his  stick.  "How's  that 
for  a  pathway,  John  McEvoy?  FChrist,  'tis  a  grande  avenue,  a  camino  red, 
a  very  boulevard;  at  one  end  lies  your  Slough  of  False  Integrity— to  call  it 
by  its  name  on  the  Map  of  Truth— and  at  the  other  stands  the  storied 
Town  .  .  .  where  Responsibility  rears  her  golden  towers  .  .  ."  He  faltered; 
for  a  moment  his  voice  lost  the  irony  with  which  he  had  strung  out  the 
elaborate  figure,  but  he  quickly  recovered  it.  "There,  now;  take  a  stroll  in 
that  direction,  and  if  you  vow  thou'rt  still  a  gelding,  why  then  sing  descant 
and  be  damned  to  you!" 

McEvoy  made  no  reply,  but  it  was  clear  he  felt  the  sting  of  the  poet's 
challenge:  the  anger  went  out  of  his  face,  and  he  put  his  stick  to  the  homely 
chore  of  helping  him  walk.  As  for  Ebenezer,  his  outburst  had  raised  his* 
pulse,  respiration,  and  temperature;  his  step  took  on  a  spring;  exhilaration 


[  6l8  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

narrowed  his  eyes  and  buzzed  in  his  fancy;  he  opened  his  coat  to  dry  the 
perspiration  and  unstrung  a  phalanx  of  cattails  with  one  smite. 

Surely  it  was  no  more  than  coincidental  that  this  buoying  of  his  spirits 
was  followed  not  long  after  by  good  fortune.  The  marsh  through  which 
they  walked  was  not  a  large  one  by  the  standards  of  the  county,  and  two 
hours  sufficed  to  bring  them  to  considerable  stretches  of  high  ground  and 
even  fields  which  bore  the  scars  of  cultivation.  They  passed  a  number  of 
shacks  and  small  farmhouses,  and  as  the  weak  winter  daylight  failed  they 
began  to  look  about  for  lodging.  To  expect  an  inn  in  such  desolate  country- 
side would  of  course  have  been  idle;  they  turned  their  attention  to  a  barn 
far  up  the  road,  more  prosperous  looking  than  any  they'd  met  thus  far,  and 
agreed  that  they  were  not  likely  to  find  better  quarters  before  dark.  Ebene- 
zer's  position  was  that  they  should  ask  the  owner's  permission  to  sleep  in 
the  hayloft,  on  the  chance  he  might  have  room  for  them  in  the  house; 
McEvoy  on  the  other  hand,  held  out  for  stealing  unnoticed  into  the  hay, 
on  the  grounds  that  the  planter  might  send  them  packing  if  they  asked 
for  his  consent.  Their  debate  on  the  relative  merits  of  these  strategies  was 
interrupted  by  the  approach  of  a  wagon  from  behind  them,  the  first  traffic 
they  had  encountered  all  afternoon,  and  they  stepped  off  the  road  to  let 
it  pass. 

"Whoa,  there,  Aphrodite;  whoa,  girl!  Climb  up  here,  laddies,  and  rest 
your  feet  a  spelll" 

From  a  distance  the  driver  had  seemed  to  be  a  man,  but  now  they  saw 
it  to  be  a  dumpy,  leather-faced  woman  in  die  hat  and  deerskin  coat  of  a 
fur-trapper.  The  light  was  poor,  but  even  in  the  dark  Ebenezer  would  have 
known  her  at  once  by  her  voice  and  the  circumstance  of  her  driving  a 
wagon. 

*TGod,  what  chance  is  this?"  He  laughed  incredulously  and  stepped 
close  to  convince  himself.  "Is't  Mary  Mungummory  I  see?" 

"No  other  soul,"  Mary  answered  cheerily.  "Get  up  with  ye  now,  and  tell 
me  whither  thou'rt  bound." 

They  climbed  to  the  wagon-seat  readily,  glad  to  rest  their  legs,  and 
McEvoy  named  their  destination  and  intent. 

Mary  shook  her  head.  "Well,  lads,  'tis  your  own  affair  where  ye  sleep, 
but  take  care;  'tis  a  cruel  and  cranky  wight  owns  yonder  bam.  Thou'rt  free 
to  sleep  back  in  the  wagon,  if  ye  wish  to;  I've  no  end  o'  quilts  and  coverlets 
back  there,  and  nobody  to  use  'em  till  we  reach  Church  Creek.  Giddap, 
Aphrodite!" 

She  whipped  up  her  white  mare,  and  they  proceeded  up  the  road. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  6ig  ] 

"Mary  Mungummory!"  Ebenezer  cried  again.  "'Tis  a  proper  miracle! 
How  is't  thou'rt  here  in  this  Avemus  of  a  marsh?" 

"  Tis  the  fundament  o*  Dorset,  right  enough/'  the  woman  admitted, 
"but  it's  on  my  regular  route  nonetheless.  Just  now  I'm  out  o'  girls/'  she 
explained  to  McEvoy,  who  plainly  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  her, 
"but  there's  one  in  Church  Creek  I've  heard  is  ripe  for  whoring." 

"Ah  Mary!"  laughed  Ebenezer,  still  astonished.  "Thou'rt  the  person  I've 
yearned  all  day  to  see,  and  you  have  forgot  me!  What  news  I  have  to  tell 
you!" 

"There's  many  a  lad  yearns  to  see  this  wagon  down  the  lane,"  Mary 
observed,  but  peered  at  her  passenger  more  closely.  "Why,  praise  God,  now! 
'  Is't  Eben  Cooke  the  poet,  that  I  rescued  from  a  comcrib?  I  declare  it  is, 
and  your  poor  wife  told  me  ye'd  flown  to  England!" 

McEvoy  frowned,  and  the  poet  blushed  with  shame.  "You've  seen 
Joan?" 

"Haven't  I  seen  her!"  Mary  clucked  her  tongue.  "I  saw  her  this  very 
week,  near  dead  o'  pox  and  opium— to  say  naught  o'  her  broken  heart. 
Didn't  I  tell  her  to  come  in  the  wagon  with  me  and  let  me  give  her  a  cure? 
Not  that  there's  aught  can  save  her  now,  but  'twould  keep  the  salvages  off 
her,  at  the  least.  Ah,  Mister  Cooke,  ye  did  wrong  by  that  girl,  that  asked 
such  a  trifle  of  ye.  Are  ye  bound  for  Maiden,  to  take  your  medicine  like  a 
man?" 

"I— I  am/'  Ebenezer  said  miserably,  "just  as  soon  as  I'm  free  to.  There's 
much  I  must  tell  you,  Mary,  as  we  go  along  .  .  .  But  i'faith,  I've  lost  my 
manners!  John  McEvoy,  this  is  Mary  Mungummory." 

"The  Traveling  Whore  o'  Dorset,"  Mary  added  proudly,  shaking  hands 
in  the  masculine  fashion  with  McEvoy. 

"So  she  calls  herself,"  Ebenezer  declared,  "but  she  is  the  most  Christian 
lady  in  the  Province  of  Maryland,  I  swear."  He.  then  introduced  McEvoy 
as  an  old  and  dear  friend  from  London,  and  though  he  could  scarcely  wait 
to  tell  Mary  about  the  coming  Indian  uprising,  her  late  lover  Charley 
Mattassin's  brothers,  and  the  urgent  mission  to  which  he  was  committed, 
his  curiosity  and  bad  conscience  led  him  first  to  inquire  further  about  the 
state  of  things  at  Maiden. 

Mary  cocked  her  head  and  clucked  her  tongue  again.  "There's  much 
hath  changed  since  ye  ran  off:  all  manner  o'  queer  goings-on,  that  nor 
Joan  Toast  nor  any  soul  else  seems  to  know  the  sense  of— myself  included, 
that  left  my  girls  and  bade  Bill  Smith  adieu  as  soon  as  Tim  Mitchell  dis- 
appeared/' 


[620]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Is  my  father  there,  do  you  know?  Andrew  Cooke?  And  what  of  the 
cooper?" 

"There's  a  wight  that  calls  himself  Andrew  Cooke,  all  right,"  Mary  said. 
"Whether  he's  your  father  is  past  Joan's  proving,  and  mine,  that  ne'er  laid 
eyes  on  him  in  England.  He  is  a  hard-hearted  wretch  in  any  case,  I  swear! 
Bill  Smith's  there  too  and,  still  hath  title  to  the  place,  albeit  I  hear  there's 
every  sort  o'  law-suits  on  the  fire.  But  i'Christ,  Til  say  no  more;  there's 
much  afoot,  that  ye'll  learn  of  better  for  yourself."  She  chuckled.  "What  a 
wondrous  stir  'twill  make  when  you  walk  in!  Better  slip  a  cedar  shingle  in 
your  breeches,  like  a  proper  truant!" 

"One  question  more,"  begged  Ebenezer.  "I  must  know  whether  my  sister 
Anna  is  there  with  Father." 

'Te  mean  to  say  ye  do  have  a  sister?"  Mary  glanced  at  him  thoughtfully 
and  urged  the  mare  on  through  the  twilight 

"You  have  news  of  her?  Where  is  she?" 

"Nay/'  Mary  answered,  "I've  not  heard  aught  of  her.  The  truth  is,  this 
wight  that  calls  himself  your  father  told  Bill  Smith's  lawyer— ye  recall  that 
blaspheming  thief  Dick  Sowter?— told  Sowter  ye  was  the  only  heir  to 
Cooke's  Point:  no  brothers  or  sisters.  Then  when  some  fellow  recollected 
ye  was  born  twins,  he  changed  his  story  and  swore  the  other  twin  died  o' 
the  Plague." 

•  "What?  This  is  fantastic!"  Ebenezer  pressed  the  woman  for  a  description 
of  this  Andrew  Cooke;  the  detail  of  the  withered  right  arm  convinced  him 
it  was  his  father,  but  she  could  shed  no  light  on  the  strange  assertions,  nor 
was  she  inclined  to  speak  of  the  matter  at  all. 

'Te'll  see  what's  what  soon  enough,  I'll  wager,"  she  repeated,  and  her 
expression  showed  such  uncharacteristic  glumness  that  the  poet  felt  obliged 
to  pursue  the  subject  no  farther.  By  this  time  their  intended  lodging  was 
far  behind  them,  and  marshy  ground  began  to  appear  once  more  not  far 
from  the  road.  A  cold  wind  sprang  up  in  the  gathering  darkness. 

"Marry,  I've  so  much  to  tell  you!"  he  cried  with  forced  enthusiasm.  "I 
scarce  know  where  to  commence!" 

"Why,  then,  think  it  out  tonight  and  start  fresh  in  the  morning,"  Mary 
replied.  With  her  whip  she  pointed  to  a  lighted  window  in  the  distance. 
"Tender's  where  we'll  stop:  'tis  an  old  friend  o'  mine  lives  there." 

"FGod,  don't  put  me  off!  If  aught  I  said  distressed  you,  prithee  forgive 
me  for't;  but  what  I  have  to  say  concerns  you  as  well  as  me." 

"Indeed,  sir?  How  might  that  be?" 

Ebenezer  hesitated.  "Well—did  you  know  Charley  Mattassin  had  a 
brother?" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  621  ] 

She  regarded  him  thoughtfully.  "Aye,  a  salvage  down  on  Bloodsworth 
Island.  What  do  ye  know  of  him?" 

Ebenezer  laughed  distractedly.  "There's  so  much  to  tell!  Stay,  now— 
did  you  know  he  had  two  brothers,  and  Henry  Burlingame— that  is  to  say, 
Tim  Mitchell,  that  I  said  had  the  same  strange  character  as  your  Charley 

I'm  all  entangled!  Tell  me  this,  Mary:  when  did  you  last  see  Tim 

Mitchell,  and  where  is  he  now?" 

Full  of  wonder,  Mary  replied  that  she  had  not  seen  Tim  Mitchell  for 
weeks,  even  months;  it  was  rumored,  in  fact,  that  he  had  not  been  Captain 
Mitchell's  son  at  all,  but  an  impostor  of  some  sort,  the  agent  of  certain 
powerful  and  unidentified  interests  hostile  to  the  equally  powerful  and  un- 
identified syndicate  in  which  Captain  Mitchell  was  a  major  figure.  Tim's 
disappearance  had  been  the  occasion  for  great  alarm  and  mutual  suspicion 
among  Captain  Mitchell,  William  Smith,  and  the  other  operatives  in  the 
organization,  but  for  Mary  herself,  by  her  own  admission,  it  had  been  a 
stroke  of  good  fortune,  for  he  had  been  a  hard  taskmaster  for  her  girls  at 
Maiden. 

"Then  you  don't  know  where  he  is?"  Ebenezer  interrupted.  "I  must 
find  him  within  a  fortnight,  or  I  and  three  companions  will  die— nay,  I'll 
explain  in  time.  Know,  Mary,  that  the  man  you  called  Tim  Mitchell  is 
really  Henry  Burlingame  the  Third,  son  of  the  Tayac  Chicamec  of  the 
Ahatchwhoops  and  brother  to  Charley  Mattassin  and  Cohunkowprets, 
whom  we  must  find  also  or  perish!  All  we  know  of  him  is  that  he  was  sent 
on  a  mission  by  his  father,  as  was  Mattassin  before  him,  and  like  Mattassin 
he  was  detained  by  some  English  Calypso "  He  smiled  in  order  to  indi- 
cate to  Mary  that  he  had  not  betrayed  her  confidence  to  McEvoy.  "This 
was  some  days  or  weeks  ago,.  I  gather,  and  the  Tayac  hath  not  seen  him 
since.  I  hoped  you  might  have  heard  rumors  in  the  County  of  a  half-breed 
salvage  turned  proper  Englishman." 

"Dear  Heav'n!"  Mary  threw  back  her  head  and  closed  her  eyes.  "Did  ye 
.say  he  plays  the  Englishman,  Mister  Cooke?" 

"That  is  the  story  as  Chicamec  heard  it,  and  'sheart,  how  it  griped  his 
English-hating  bowels!  The  man  took  an  English  name,  an  English  wife, 
and  an  English  house,  and  hath  turned  his  back  on  salvagery.  Have  you 
heard  of  such  a  fellow?" 

"What  did  ye  say  was  his  English  name?"  Mary's  voice  was  husky;  her 
face  quite  white. 

"I've  no  idea.  Cohunkowprets,  so  we're  told,  means  Bill-of-ihe-Goose. 
What  ails  you  Mary?  Have  you  seen  him,  then?" 


[  622  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Mary  turned  the  mare  Aphrodite  stiffly  into  the  lane  of  the  lighted  cabin, 
and  the  occupant  stepped  outside  with  a  lantern  to  meet  them. 

"Nay,  Mister  Cooke,  I've  not  seen  him,  but  I  have  heard  tell  of  a  half- 
breed  named  Rumbly:  Billy  Rumbly " 

"You  have?  Marry  come  up>  John,  this  sainted  lady  will  save  me  once 
again!"  He  squeezed  her  plump  arm,  but  instead  of  her  usual  meaty  laugh 
she  gave  a  groan  and  shrank  from  his  cordiality. 

"What  in  the  name  of  Heaven  is  wrong  with  you,  Mary?"  he  demanded. 
Already  their  host  for  the  night  recognized  the  sailcloth-covered  wagon 
and  called  his  greetings  down  the  lane. 

"No  time  to  tell  ye  now,"  the  woman  muttered.  "I'll  spin  the  tale  for  ye 
tomorrow  morning  on  our  way  to  Church  Creek-— that's  where  this  Billy 
Rumbly's  said  to  live,  and  I  was  bound  for  his  place  ere  ever  I  met  ye  back 
yonder  on  the  road." 

"Bound  for  there "  Ebenezer's  laugh  rang  over  the  marsh.  "D'you 

hear  that,  John?  TJiis  woman's  an  angel  of  God,  I  swear!  Not  only  hath  she 
heard  of  Lord  Cohunkowprets;  she  means  to  pay  him  a  call!"  He  turned  to 
Mary  again  and  said  slyly,  "I'll  wager  old  Aphrodite  yonder  will  feel  the 
whip,  now  you  know  who  it  is  thou'rt  bound  for!" 

Mary  shook  her  head  slowly.  "Go  to,  go  to,  Mister  Cooke.  Go  to."  They 
were  close  enough  to  the  lantern  of  their  host  for  Ebenezer  to  see  the 
consternation  on  her  face,  and  though  he  could  not  imagine  what  so 
alarmed  her,  his  heart  turned  cold. 

"D'ye  not  recall  who  I  am,  and  what  business  I  have  in  Church  Creek? 
I  am  the  Traveling  Whore  o'  Dorset,  Mister  Cooke,  and  the  trollop  I  lately 
got  wind  of,  that  may  wish  to  join  my  traveling  company—WTzod,  Aphro- 
dite! Whoa,  girl!— I  have  a  notion— just  a  notion,  mind  ye  now-— this  tart 
may  be  your  sister  .  .  ." 


10:  THE  ENGLISHING  OF  BILLY  RUMBLY  IS  RELATED, 
PURELY  FROM  HEARSAY,  BY  THE  TRAVELING  WHORE 
O'  DORSET 


SUPPLICATE,  CAJOLE,  AND  THREATEN  AS  HE  MIGHT  EBENEZER  COULD  NOT 

prevail  upon  Mary  Mungummory  to  speak  farther  on  the  subject  of  Anna's 
whereabouts  and  circumstances.  She  saluted  their  host,  a  buckskinned,  thin- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  623  ] 

grinned,  begrizzled  old  hermit  of  a  fur-trapper,  and  would  not  hear  the 
poet's  desperate  expostulations. 

The  old  fellow  held  up  his  lantern  and  was  clearly  pleased  at  what  its 
light  disclosed,  for  he  sprang  about  like  a  drunken  frog,  croaking  for  joy. 

"Mary  Mungummory!  I  swear  'tis  old  Mary  at  that!" 

Mary  grunted.  "Did  ye  look  to  see  Helen  o'  Troy  in  the  Dorset  marsh 
this  time  of  the  night?"  She  talked  over-loudly,  as  one  would  to  a  man 
partially  deaf.  Her  voice  was  rough  with  concealed  affection,  and  whether 
he  grasped  the  allusion  or  not,  the  old  man  hopped  and  snorted  apprecia- 
tively. He  climbed  up  onto  the  side  of  the  wagon  and  peeked  inside  as 
Mary  drove  Aphrodite  up  to  his  cabin. 

"Don't  strain  your  eyes,  ye  old  lecher,"  she  shouted.  "The  cupboard's 
bare  till  I  reach  Church  Creek."  She  changed  the  subject  quickly.  "These 
here  are  friends  o'  mine,  Harvey,  down  on  their  luck.  If  ye'll  stand  dinner 
and  lodging  for  the  three  of  us,  I'll  make  it  up  to  ye  next  time  around." 

"What  fiddle  is  this?"  Harvey  cried,  feigning  insult.  "D'ye  think  I'd  not 
ha'  took  after  ye,  had  ye  not  turned  in  my  lane?  I  looked  at  the  moon  three 
nights  ago,  and  I  thought  'twas  nigh  time  to  see  Mary's  wagon  again."  He 
sprang  off  the  wagon  the  instant  it  stopped  at  his  cabin.  "Come  inside  and 
thaw,  now;  there's  partridge  and  duck  a-plenty,  and  cider  to  drown  the 
lot  o'  ye!" 

"We  thank  ye,"  McEvoy  said  loudly.  Ebenezer  was  too  distraught  to 
acknowledge  the  man's  charity  with  more  than  a  nod;  when  their  host  ran 
ahead  to  open  the  cabin  door,  the  poet  whispered  a  final  fierce  entreaty  to 
Mary  to  relieve  his  tortured  imaginings  with  explanation. 

"There's  no  more  Christian  man  in  Dorset  than  Harvey  Russecks,"  she 
declared,  ignoring  him.  "And  few  with  less  cause  to  feel  kindness  for  his 
fellow  creatures.  He's  a  brother  to  Sir  Harry  Russecks  in  Church  Creek." 

Her  tone  implied  that  this  last  assertion  was  intended  to  be  revealing, 
but  to  Ebenezer,  yawning  and  shivering  with  volatile  frustration  as  they 
entered  the  rude  log  cabin,  it  meant  nothing  at  all. 

"I'll  just  spit  us  a  brace  o'  partridge  on  the  fire,"  Harvey  declared,  and 
jumped  to  prepare  the  food.  "Haply  ye'll  pass  the  cider-jug  round,  Mary; 
old  Harvey's  got  no  cups  to  offer  ye  gentlemen."  He  fussed  about  like  a 
new  bride,  and  soon  two  birds  were  roasting  over  the  pine  logs  in  the 
fireplace.  There  was  only  one  chair  in  the  cabin,  but  the  wood  floor  boasted 
two  black-bear  pelts,  as  warm  and  easy  a  seat  as  one  could  ask. 

"If  ye  don't  know  the  miller  Harry  Russecks,"  Mary  went  on,  "thou'rt 
among  the  blest  indeed."  She  addressed  herself  to  Ebenezer;  when  the 


[624]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

poet  looked  away,  wincing  at  the  irrelevancy  of  her  discourse,  she  flared  her 
nostrils  with  a  peculiar  anger— as  if  to  say  "I  too  am  pained  by  the 
present  state  of  affairs,  but  I  don't  use  my  pain  as  an  excuse  to  be 
ungracious"— and  turned  to  McEvoy  instead.  "This  Harry  Russecks  is  the 
lyingest,  cheatingest,  braggingest  bully  ye'll  e'er  mischance  to  meet;  thinks 
he's  a  London  peer,  doth  the  wretch,  and  browbeats  his  neighbors  to  call 
him  'Sir  Harry'  all  the  while  he  gives  'em  short  weight  on  their  flour  and 
meal.  Truth  is,  he's  no  more  a  nobleman  than  his  brother  Harvey  here, 
that's  the  son  of  a  common  house-servant  and  not  ashamed  to  own  it.  'Tis 
Mrs.  Russecks  is  an  orphan  child  o'  the  peerage— the  miller's  wife,  and  as 
fine  a  woman  as  her  husband  is  the  contrary.  The  bitter  part  is,  her  father 
was  the  gentleman  that  the  miller's  father  served*  but  fortune  used  her  so 
ill  their  positions  turned  arsy-turvy:  she  was  a  starving  orphan  and  Harry 
a  prosperous  miller,  and  he  married  her  a-purpose  to  tickle  his  vanity." 

"Ye  don't  say!"  McEvoy  shook  his  head  in  polite  wonder  and  glanced 
uncomfortably  from  Ebenezer  to  their  host,  who  pottered  about,  oblivious 
to  the  narrative. 

"He  can't  hear  me,  never  fear,"  Mary  assured  him.  "Poor  devil  had  both 
his  ears  boxed  .till  the  drams  cracked,  as  I  hear,  and  ye  can  lightly  guess 
who  boxed  'em." 

'The  miller?"  McEvoy  asked. 

Mary  pressed  her  lips  and  nodded.  "Both  brothers  grew  up  with  her,  at 
first  in  her  father's  manor-house  and  then  on  neighboring  farms  in  Church 
Creek,  and  the  story  hath  it  they  both  were  in  love  with  her  from  the  first, 
but  Harvey  was  too  shy  and  respectful  o'  place  to  do  aught  but  wet-dream 
of  her,  e'en  when  she  was  a-beggaring,  while  Harry's  lust  was  public  as  the 
moon.  'Twas  when  Harry  wed  her  that  Harvey  took  to  living  here  in  the 
marsh,  and  some  years  after,  when  he  scolded  Sir  Harry  for  abusing  the 
girl  and  putting  on  airs,  the  bully  boxed  his  ears  and  well-nigh  ground 
him  into  cornmeal." 

The  Irishman  clucked  his  tongue. 

"How  she  came  to  be  orphaned  is  a  story  in  itself,"  Mary  went  on 
doggedly.  "She's  a  lady  o'  spirit,  is  Roxie  Russecks,  and  don't  think  she 
comes  fawning  at  the  great  lout's  beck  and  call!  Why,  I  could  tell  ye  one 
or  two  things  she  hath  contrived " 

"No  morel"  Ebenezer  cried,  clutching  his  ears.  Even  the  hard-of-hearing 
trapper  turned  round.  "I  thank  you  humbly  for  your  hospitality!"  Ebenezer 
shouted  to  him.  "And  I've  no  wish  to  appear  ungracious  or  ungrateful  fpr'tl 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [625] 

But  Miss  Mungummory  here  hath  news  of  my  long-lost  sister,  and  I  shall 
perish  of  anxiety  if  she  keeps  it  from  me  any  longer/7 

Harvey  looked  questioningly  at  Mary.  "What  is't  ails  the  wight?" 

"He's  not  the  only  poor  wretch  here  on  tenterhooks/'  Mary  snapped.  "He 
hath  news  of  his  own  close  to  my  heart,  but  the  tales  are  long  and  mazy, 
and  here's  no  place  to  spin  'em  out.  Let  him  wait  till  we're  on  the  road." 

But  the  trapper  joined  his  protests  to  Ebenezer's. 

"No  pleasure  pleasures  me  as  doth  a  well-spun  tale*  be't  sad  or  merry, 
shallow  or  deep!  If  the  subject's  privy  business,  or  unpleasant,  who  cares  a 
fig?  The  road  to  Heaven's  beset  with  thistles,  and  methinks  there's  many 
a  cow-pat  on't  as  well.  And  what  matter  if  your  folk  are  drawn  from  life? 
Tis  not  likely  I'll  ha'  met  'em,  or  know  'em  from  your  telling  if  e'er  I  should! 
Call  'em  what  names  ye  will:  in  a  tale  they're  less  than  themselves,  and 
more.  Besides  which,  if  ye  have  the  art  to  make  'em  live— 'sheart!— thou'rt 
nowise  liable  for  what  the  rascals  do,  no  more  than  God  Almighty  for  the 
lot  of  us.  As  for  length,  fie  on't!"  He  raised  his  horny  finger.  "A  bad  tale's 
long  though  it  want  but  a  single  eyeblink  for  the  telling,  and  a  good  tale 
short  though  it  takes  from  St.  Swithin's  to  Michaelmas  to  have  done  with't. 
Ha!  And  the  plot  is  tangled,  d'ye  say?  Is't  more  knotful  or  bewildered  than 
the  skein  o'  life  itself,  that  a  good  tale  tangles  the  better  to  unsnarl?  Nay, 
out  with  your  story,  now,  and  yours  as  well,  sir,  and  shame  on  the  both 
o'  ye  thou'rt  not  commenced  already!  Spin  and  tangle  till  the  Dog-star  sets 
f  the  Bay—nor  fear  I'll  count  ye  idle  gossips:  a  tale  well  wrought  is  the 
gossip  o'  the  gods,  that  see  the  heart  and  hidden  point  o'  life  on  earth;  the 
seamless  web  o'  the  world;  the  Warp  and  the  Woof .  .  ,  I' Christ  I  do  love 
a  story,  sirs!  Tell  away!" 

Even  Mary  was  plainly  impressed  by  her  old  friend's  eloquence,  and 
though  her  scowl  only  darkened  as  he  concluded,  it  was  the  scowl  no  longer 
of  recalcitrance  but  of  grudging  assent,  and  she  agreed  that  tales  would  be 
told  when  the  partridge  was  finished. 

"The  fact  oft  is,"  she  said  loudly  to  Harvey,  "you  may  have  as  much  to 
say  as  any  of  us.  'Tis  the  half-breed  Rumbly  we're  interested  in,  amongst 
other  matters:  the  Englishing  of  Billy  Rumbly.  Master  Cooke  here  can 
start  us  off,  that  hath  some  mysterious  business  with  the  wight,  and  then 
we'll  each  add  what  we  can.  But  not  till  the  birds  are  done." 

Harvey  Russeck's  face  brightened  at  the  name  Billy  RumbZy,  which  was 
evidently  not  new  to  him,  and  squinted  a  bit  at  the  mention  of  Ebenezer's 
surname.  'Thou'rt  the  poet  chap  that  gave  away  his  property?" 

"The  same,"  Ebenezer  replied,  no  longer  embarrassed  by  this  identifica- 


[626]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

tion.  <rYou  all  may  wait  for  your  dinners  if  you  wish;  since  I'm  to  start,  I'll 
start  right  now,  listen  who  will,  and  tell  you  why  not  only  my  life  but  the 
life  of  every  white-skinned  person  in  the  Province  may  depend  on  my  finding 
a  salvage  called  Cohunkowprets,  within  the  month,  and  persuading  him 
to  listen  to  humane  reasoning."  He  proceeded  to  tell  them  about  the  search 
for  his  sister  Anna;  the  capture  of  his  party  on  Bloodsworth  Island;  the 
grand  conspiracy  of  fugitive  Negroes  and  disaffected  Maryland  Indians,  who 
threatened  to  ally  themselves  with  Monsieur  Casteene  and  the  League  of 
Six  Nations  to  effect  a  general  massacre  of  the  English  Colonies.  He  ex- 
plained his  relationship  with  Drepacca  and  Quassapelagh,  and  the  peculiar 
status  of  the  Tayac  Chicamec  in  the  triumvirate.  As  briefly  as  the  complexity 
of  the  subject  permitted  he  described  the  history  of  Chicamec's  antagonism 
towards  the  English,  the  ironic  fates  of  his  three  sons,  and  the  consequent 
insecurity  of  his  present  position  in  the  conspiracy— an  insecurity  on  which 
the  poet  had  capitalized  to  gain  the  conditional  release  of  McEvoy  and 
himself.  Majy  Mungummory  and  Harvey  Russecks  hung  astonished  on  the 
tale;  had  not  McEvoy  been  already  familiar  with  the  greater  portion  of  it 
and  thus  able  to  devote  his  attention  at  times  to  other  matters,  the  two 
partridges  would  have  burned  untended  on  the  spit.  Russecks  allowed  his 
guest  to  carve  and  serve  the  birds  himself,  too  absorbed  in  the  poet's  nar- 
ration even  to  notice  this  lapse  from  the  conventions  of  hosthood. 

"Marry  sir,  do  I  have't  aright?"  he  asked  incredulously.  "Ye  must  deliver 
Cohunkowprets  or  the  other  wight  to  Bloodsworth  Island  within  the 
month,  or  else  the  salvages  will  bum  the  two  hostages?" 

"They'll  burn  the  three  of  us,"  Ebenezer  affirmed.  "  Tis  my  fault  they're 
on  Bloodsworth  Island." 

Both  his  listeners  glanced  questioningly  at  McEvoy,  who  lowered  his  eyes 
to  the  food  and  said— in  a  voice  surely  too  low  for  the  trapper  to  catch— "I 
owe  Mister  Cooke  my  life;  that's  true  enough.  God  knows  whether  I'm  hero 
enough  not  to  renege  on  the  debt." 

"The  fact  is,"  Ebenezer  concluded,  to  draw  their  attention  away  from 
his  companion,  "we're  all  of  us  like  to  lose  our  scalps  anon,  when  the  war 
commences,  apd  there's  reason  to  think  'twill  commence  when  this  same 
month  of  mine  expires.  They  seemed  quite  indifferent  whether  I  spread 
the  news  of  their  plot;  'tis  as  if  they  feel  our  militia's  not  a  match  for  them." 

"They're  right  enough  there,"  declared  their  host.  "Copley  and  Nicholson 
both  refused  help  to  New  York,  e'en  when  the  Schenectady  folk  were 
murthered,  and  'tis  fplly  to  look  for  help  from  Andros  in  Virginia  or  the 
Quaker  William  Penn:  they'd  like  naught  better  than  to  see  us  butchered 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [627] 

by  the  salvages  and  Negroes,  for  all  they  might  be  next  at  the  block  them- 
selves." He  shook  his  head.  "The  worst  oft  is,  an  honest  man  can't  hate 
the  wretches  for't.  When  a  poor  wight's  driven  from  his  rightful  place,  and 
pushed,  and  pushed,  and  pushed— to  say  naught  o'  being  clapped  in 
hobbles  and  sold  off  the  block  like  a  dray-horse— f  faith,  'tis  only  natural  he'll 
fight  the  man  that's  pushing  him,  if  he  hath  any  spirit  left  in  him.  I've  no 
great  wish  to  lose  my  scalp,  sirs,  but  I  swear  I'm  half  on  the  Indians'  side  o' 
the  question." 

"My  sentiments  to  the  letter,"  Mary  agreed. 

"And  mine,"  said  Ebenezer;  "not  alone  because  there's  justice  in  their 
cause,  but  also  because— how  much  life  teaches!— there's  a  deal  of  the  sal- 
vage in  all  of  us.  But  as  you  say,  'twere  better  to  keep  one's  scalp  than  lose 
it.  'Tis  for  that  reason  I  must  find  Chicamec's  sons:  Burlingarne  I  know  is  a 
very  Siren  for  persuasion,  and  this  Cohunkowprets,  if  he  hath  in  sooth 
embraced  the  English  cause  .  .  .  my  plan  is  to  apply  to  his  new  loyalties, 
if  I  can  contrive  it;  send  him  back  to  the  Ahatchwhoops  as  a  penitent 
prodigal;  let  him  assume  his  place  as  prince  of  the  bloody  realm,  where  he 
can  do  his  best  to  influence  Quassapelagh  and  Drepacca,  and  haply  forestall 
the  massacre.  Tis  a  chancy  gambit,  I'll  own,  but  desperate  cases  want 
desperate  physic;  and  until  Mary,  or  the  twain  of  you,  tell  your  tales,  I 
know  naught  of  Cohunkowprets  save  that  he  met  some  English  woman 
in  Dorset  County  and  deserted  his  people  then  and  there  to  woo  her,  just 

as  his  brother  Mattassin  before  him "  he  stopped  and  blushed.  "Forgive 

me,  Mary." 

The  woman  waved  his  apology  away  and  sighed  a  corpulent  sigh. 
"Naught  to  forgive,  Mister  Cooke;  naught  to  forgive.  I  feel  no  shame  at 
loving  Charley  Mattassin,  nor  any  regret  nor  anger  at  his  end.  If  I  could 

believe  his  brother  was  like  him Nay  no  matter!  We'll  learn  soon 

enough,  and  in  any  case "  She  paused,  and  a  little  tremor  shook  her. 

"What  I  mean,  the  line  'twixt  pleasure  and  pain  grows  hard  to  fix  in  their 

extremes,  and I'Christ,  I  am  no  greybeard  philosopher,  but  think  o'  the 

saints  ye  h£ar  of,  that  have  visions  o'  God  Almighty:  I  doubt  not  'tis  a 
glorious  moment,  but  a  body  scarce  could  bear  it  more  than  once  or  twice! 
I'm  minded  of  some  old  scoundrels  Charley  read  about  in  his  Homer  and 
his  Virgil,  and  the  two  of  us  were  wont  to  chuckle  at— their  names  are 
gone,  but  one  was  the  father  of  Achilles  and  the  other  of  Aeneas " 

Ebenezer  supplied  the  names  Peleus  and  Anchises;  he  was  surprised 
anew  at  the  extent,  not  only  of  the  Indian's  late  forays  into  Western  cut 


[628]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

hire  but  also  of  Mary's  pertinent  recollections,  and  McEvoy,  who  knew 
nothing  of  the  curious  relationship,  was  flabbergasted. 

"Those  were  the  very  wights,"  Mary  affirmed.  "Each  had  bumped  his 
bacon  with  a  goddess,  just  one  time,  and  the  twain  of  'em  were  ruined  for 
life  by't.  No  doubt  'twas  a  bargain  at  the  price,  but  there  are  bargains  a 
poor  soul  can't  afford  but  once.  D'ye  see  my  point?" 

They  did— Ebenezer  and  the  trapper,  in  any  case— and  Mary  went  on. 

"Now  mind,  I'm  not  saying  this  Billy  Rumbly  is  Mattassin's  brother: 
I've  ne'er  laid  eyes  on  him,  as  Harvey  hath,  and  Charley  ne'er  spoke  over- 
much about  his  family.  But  what  I've  heard  o"  the  wretch  and  his  English 
woman  I  can  fathom  to  the  core.  Let  callow  folk  laugh:  I  know  his  heart 
and  hers  as  well!  There's  something  in't  of  what  Mister  Cooke  declared 
just  now,  and  what  we  discoursed  on  once  before  in  the  Cambridge  stables 
—that  there's  a  piece  o'  the  salvage  in  us  all.  Tis  that  and  more:  the  dark 
of  'em  hath  somewhat  to  do  with't,  I  know.  What  drives  so  many  planter's 
ladies  to  raise  their  skirts  for  some  great  black  buck  of  a  slave,  like  the 
Queen  in  The  Thousand  and  One  Nights?  FGod,  the  things  I  see  and 
hear  of  in  my  rounds!  Methinks  'tis  an  itch  for  all  we  lose  as  proper  citizens 
—something  in  us  pines  for  Chaos,  for  the  black  and  lawless  Pit.  I've  seen 
these  ladies  at  their  pleasure  and  taken  my  share  oft;  the  sweat  of  such 
rutting  hath  the  cold,  sweet  stink  o'  Death." 

She  had  been  looking  at  the  pine  logs  on  the  fire;  now  she  seemed  to 
become  freshly  aware  of  her  listeners'  presence.  She  straightened  her 
shoulders,  rubbed  her  nose  as  vigorously  as  if  it  itched,  and  sniffed  self- 
consciously. "But  that's  no  tale,  there,  is  it,  Harvey?" 

"Not  a  bit  oft,"  Harvey  replied.  "  'Tis  a  great  mistake  for  a  tale-teller  to 
philosophize  and  tell  us  what  his  story  means;  haply  it  doth  not  mean 
what  he  thinks  at  all,  at  least  to  the  rest  of  us."  Despite  the  mock  severity 
of  his  tone,  however,  the  trapper  was  clearly  impressed  by  Mary's  analysis, 
as  were  Ebenezer  and  McEvoy.  As  he  had  in  the  Cambridge  stables  on 
the  occasion  Mary  referred  to,  Ebenezer  recalled  with  anguish  his  behavior 
aboard  the  Cyprian  and  his  flagellation  of  Joan  Toast  in  Captain  Mitchell's 
house;  what  ghosts,  he  wondered  with  a  shiver,  had  Mary  conjured  in  the 
hermit  and  the  Irishman? 

"  Tis  what  I  thought  of,  in  any  case,"  she  said  good-naturedly,  "when 
Roxie  Russecks  told  me  about  Billy  Rumbly  and  the  Church  Creek  Virgin." 

Ebenezer  bit  his  lip,  and  Mary  hurried  into  the  story. 

"Just  a  fortnight  ago  or  thereabouts  this  woman  came  to  Church  Creek, 
all  alone,  with  no  baggage  or  chattels  save  what  little  she  could  carry,  and 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [629] 

went  from  house  to  house  looking  for  lodgings.  She  was  a  spinster  of  thirty 
or  so,  as  I  hear't,  and  declared  she  was  new  out  of  England;  gave  her  name 
as  Miss  Bromly  of  London/' 

"Dear  Heav'n!"  Ebenezer  cried.  "I  know  that  girl!  She  was  our  neighbor 
when  we  lived  on  Plumtree  Street  and  my  sister's  best  friend  for  years!" 
He  laughed  aloud  with  sharp  relief.  "Aye,  there's  the  answer!  She  spoke  of 
me,  and  ye  took  her  for  my  sister!  What  business  hath  Miss  Bromly  in 
Maryland?" 

"She  may  not  e'en  be  here,"  Mary  answered  darkly.  "Hear  me  out.  As  I 
say,  she  gave  her  name  as  Miss  Meg  Bromly,  but  when  folk  asked  her  what 
her  business  was  in  Church  Creek,  and  how  long  she  meant  to  hire  lodgings 
for,  she  had  no  ready  reply  at  all.  Some  took  her  for  a  runaway  redemptioner 
—there's  been  a  flock  of  'em  lately  in  the  County;  others  thought  she  was 
the  mistress  o'  some  planter,  that  meant  to  keep  her  in  Church  Creek; 
others  yet  believed  she  was  got  in  the  family  way  and  either  turned  out  by 
her  father  or  sent  to  the  country  for  her  confinement— albeit  she  showed  no 
signs  oft  in  the  waist.  Now,  'tis  rare  to  find  a  maiden  lady  of  thirty  years 
anywhere,  but  especially  in  the  Plantations,  and  rarer  yet  to  find  one 
traveling  alone,  without  servants  or  proper  baggage,  and  not  e'en  able  to 
state  her  business  plainly.  Add  to  this,  she  was  nowise  ugly  or  deformed, 
and  spoke  as  civil  as  any  lady— she  could  have  had  her  choice  o'  husbands 
for  the  asking,  I  daresay— 'tis  small  wonder  the  folk  she  applied  to,  whate'er 
their  sundry  views,  all  took  her  for  a  bad  woman,  either  a  whore  already  or 
a  whore-to-be,  and  had  naught  to  do  with  her.  The  ladies,  that  is  to  say.  As 
for  the  men,  they  quite  agreed;  they  slavered  and  drooled  after  her  like 
boars  to  a  salt  young  sow,  and  made  all  manner  of  lewd  remarks  and 
propositions.  If  any  man  doubted  she  was  a  whore,  they  doubted  no  more 
when  she  took  rooms  at  Russecks's  inn:  'tis  no  inn,  really,  but  a  common 
store  and  tavern  that  blackguard  of  a  miller  owns— Harvey's  brother. 
There's  an  upstairs  to't,  no  more  than  a  loft  walled  off  into  stalls  with 
pallets;  'tis  where  my  girls  set  up  shop  when  we're  in  the  neighborhood,  ere 
we  go  on  to  Cambridge  and  Cooke's  Point. 

"Well,  she  stood  them  off  as  haughty  as  ye  please,  but  they  reckoned 
she  was  holding  out  for  a  higher  price.  Finally  they  asked  her  to  name  her 
hire,  whereupon  she  drew  a  little  pistol  from  her  coat  and  replied,  she'd 
charge  a  man  his  life  just  to  lay  hands  on  her,  and  King  William  himself 
couldn't  buy  her  maidenhead.  With  that  she  went  up  into  the  loft,  and  no 
man  in  the  room  durst  follow  her.  Thenceforth  they  called  her  the  Virgin 
o'  Church  Creek,  merely  for  a  tease,  inasmuch  as  they  all  believed  she  was 


[  630  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

the  mistress  of  Governor  Nicholson,  or  John  Coode,  or  some  other  impor- 
tant man.  She  came  and  went  whene'er  she  pleased,  and  no  man  touched 
her.  Now  and  again  she'd  make  enquiries  of  'em,  whether  they  knew  aught 
of  the  state  o'  things  at  Maiden,  on  Cooke's  Point,  and  o'  course  they 
knew  Maiden  to  be  the  fleshpot  o'  Dorset  County,  so  they  took  her  all  the 
more  surely  for  a  fashionable  whore  and  answered  her  with  lecherous  jokes 
and  nonsense. 

"  Twas  only  a  few  days  later,  so  Roxie  told  me,  this  half-breed  Indian 
buck  came  into  Church  Creek,  that  nobody  recalled  ever  seeing  before.  As 
a  rule,  the  salvages  travel  in  pairs  when  they  come  to  town,  but  this  wight 
was  all  alone;  he  strode  into  Russecks's  store  as  bold  as  ye  please,  put  a 
silver  coin  on  the  table,  and  called  for  a  glass  o'  rum!" 

"Ah,  that  can't  be  Cohunkowprets,  can  it,  John?"  Ebenezer  asked 
McEvoy.  "I  doubt  he  knew  enough  English  to  order  rum." 

But  McEvoy  was  not  so  certain.  "He  might  well  have  learned  from  Dick 
Parker,  ye  know;  Dick  Parker  himself  learned  good  English  in  two  or  three 
months." 

"And  Charley  Mattassin  in  less  time  yet,"  Mary  added,  and  continued 
her  narration.  "This  salvage  was  so  fierce-looking,  Harry  Russecks  gave  him 
his  rum  with  no  argument,  and  he  drank  it  off  like  water,  'Twas  plain  he'd 
never  tasted  liquor  before,  for  he  gagged  and  choked  on't,  but  when  'twas 
down  he  called  for  another  to  follow  the  first.  (All  this  is  my  Charley  to  the 
letter,  Mister  Cooke— bold  as  brass  and  bound  to  learn  all  in  a  single 
gulp.)  By  this  time  the  men  saw  a  chance  for  some  sport  with  him,  for 
there's  no  more  stupid  drunk  than  a  drunken  salvage.  They  poured  him  his 
rum  and  asked  his  name,  which  he  gave  as  Bill-o'-the-Goose " 

"That's  itl"  Ebenezer  aud  McEvoy  cried  out  at  once, 

'The  Tayac  Chicamec  told  us  Cohunkowprets  means  Goosebeak," 
Ebenezer  explained.  "Why  he  bears  the  name  I  shan't  tell  here,  only  that 

"  He  blushed.  "I  shall  say  this,  Mary:  you  declared  his  manner 

resembled  Mattassin's;  know,  then,  that  save  for  the  lighter  hue  of  his  skin, 
Bill-o'-the-Goose  is  the  likeness  of  his  brother  in  every  particular  of  his 
person." 

Mary's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  'Sheart,  then  he  is  in  sooth  poor  Charley's 
brother!"  She  shook  her  head.  "How  clear  I  see  it  in  his  behavior,  now  I 
knovy  it  to  be  so!  Why,  many  come  up,  'tis  Charley  and  I  all  over  again, 
ajfter  a  fashion!" 

Bill-oVthe-Goose,  she  went  on  tearfully  to  say,  had  not  got  into  his  second 
gl$ss  of  rum  before  Miss  Bromly,  the  Church  Creek  Virgin,  happening  to 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  631  ] 

pass  through  the  room  on  her  way  outdoors  from  her  quarters,  encountered 
him  face  to  face.  Until  that  moment  she  had  preserved  through  all  their 
catcalls  and  lubricities  the  iciest  demeanor;  she  was  as  little  given  to  displays 
of  emotion  as  an  actual  marble  sculpture  of  the  Virgin.  But  by  the  testi- 
mony of  every  man  present  in  Russecks's  tavern,  when  she  beheld  the 
Indian  she  drew  back,  shrieked  out  some  unintelligible  name,  and  tottered 
for  some  moments  on  the  verge  of  a  swoon;  yet  when  a  patron  made  to 
assist  her  she  regained  her  composure  as  quickly  as  she  had  lost  it,  drove 
the  would-be  Samaritan  back  by  reaching  under  her  cape— where  the  whole 
town  knew  she  carried  her  famous  pistol— and  made  her  exit  with  a  tight- 
lipped  threat  to  the  company.  Bill-o'-the-Goose,  like  all  the  others,  had 
stared  after  her  and  was  the  first  to  speak  when  she  was  gone. 

"Bill-o'-the-Goose  no  longer  wishes  to  be  Bill-o'-the-Goose,"  he  had  de- 
clared. "You  tell  Bill-o'-the-Goose  what  ordeals  he  must  brave  to  be  an 
English  Devil." 

These,  Mary  Mungummory  swore,  were  his  very  words  as  reported  to  her 
through  the  miller  Russecks's  wife,  who  in  turn  had  heard  them  not  only 
from  her -husband  but  from  the  wives  of  all  the  men  present  on  the  occasion. 
Despite  the  chain  of  communication  everyone  agreed  on  the  content  of  his 
statement;  they  remembered  it  so  exactly  because  Bill-o'-the-Goose  had  had 
difficulty  finding  an  English  word  for  the  rigorous  initiation  rites  to  which, 
in  many  Indian  nations,  young  men  were  subjected  by  their  elders  as 
prerequisites  to  official  manhood  in  the  society— a  seasoned  trapper  present 
(not  Harvey  Russecks)  had  at  length  supplied  the  word  orded,  to  the  great 
delight  of  the  company  when  they  grasped  the  Indian's  meaning. 

"Ye  say  ye  want  to  become  an  Englishman?"  one  of  them  had  asked 
gleefully,  to  make  certain  of  their  good  fortune. 

"Yes." 

"An  English  Devil,  ye  say?"  had  asked  another. 

"Yes." 

"And  ye  want  to  know  what  tests  a  salvage  has  to  pass  ere  we  look  on 
him  as  our  brother?"  demanded  the  miller. 

"Yes." 

The  men  had  exchanged  glances  then  and  found  unanimous  design  in 
one  another's  eyes.  By  tacit  agreement  the  miller  had  proceeded  with  the 
sport. 

"Well  now,"  he  had  said  thoughtfully,  "first  off  ye  must  show  yourself  a 
man  o'  means;  we  want  no  ne'er-do-wells  about— not  unless  they're  pretty 
as  the  Virgin,  eh,  gentlemen?" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

The  Indian  had  been  unable  to  follow  this  speech,  but  when  he  was 
made  to  understand  that  they  wished  him  to  show  his  money  he  produced 
five  pounds  in  assorted  English  currency — acquired  no  man  knew  where— 
and  a  quantity  of  wompompeag,  all  of  which  the  overbearing  Russecks 
had  promptly  pocketed. 

"Now,  then,  ye  must  have  a  proper  English  name,  mustn't  he,  lads?" 

"Yes,"  Bill-o'-the-Goose  had  agreed  at  once.  "No  more  Bill-o'-the-Goose. 
English  name." 

It  was  short  work  for  the  men  to  change  Bill-o'-the-Goose  into  Billy, 
but  the  problem  of  a  fitting  surname  required  much  debate.  Some,  im- 
pressed by  the  stench  of  the  bear-grease  with  which  their  victim  was  larded 
in  typical  Indian  fashion,  held  out  for  Billy  Goat;  others,  with  his  naivet6 
in  mind,  preferred  William  Goose,  despite  its  potentially  Jacobite  conno- 
tations. While  they  deliberated,  Bill-o'-the-Goose  drank  down  his  rum— 
with  less  difficulty  than  before— and  was  commanded  to  take  another  on 
the  grounds  that  a  proper  subject  of  Their  Majesties  should  be  able  to  put 
away  half  a  rundlet  of  Barbados  without  visible  ill  effect.  It  was  this  third 
glass,  and  the  comical  solemnity  with  which  the  Indian,  already  gripping 
the  table-edge  with  one  hand  to  steady  himself,  had  raised  it  like  a  cere- 
monial grail,  that  had  inspired  the  miller  with  a  third  suggestion. 

"He  hath  the  makings  of  a  proper  rummy,  hath  our  Bill,"  he  had  re- 
marked, and  added  when  the  Indian  gave  up  just  then— in  the  manner  of 
all  the  Aha tch whoops— a  raucous,  unstifled  belch:  "Hi,  there,  he's  rumbly 
with  the  spirit  already!  Old  Billy,  the  Rumbly  Rummy!" 

And  since  no  man  present  cared  to  defend  his  own  preference  in  the 
matter  against  the  miller's,  Bill-o'-the-Goose's  new  English  name  became— 
with  appropriateness  far  profounder  than  its  author  guessed— Billy  Rumbly, 
and  was  bestowed  on  him  with  much  blasphemous  mumbo-jumbo  and  a 
baptism  of  cider  vinegar* 

"Then  they  shaved  off  his  hair,"  Mary  said,  and  Ebenezer  guessed  that 
in  earlier  tellings  of  the  story  her  voice  had  been  marked  by  nothing  like  its 
present  bitterness;  "shaved  it  off  to  the  scalp,  poured  another  glass  o7  rum 
in  his  guts,  and  told  him  no  civil  English  gentleman  e'er  reeked  o7  bear-fat. 
There  was  naught  for't,  they  declared,  but  he  must  hie  himself  down  to 
the  creek— in  mid-December,  mind— strip  off  his  clothes,  wade  out  to  his 
neck,  and  swab  himself  sweet  with  a  horse-brush  they  provided.  'Twas  the 
infter's  idea,  o'  course—br-r-r,  how  I  loathe  the  bully!— and  they  packed 
Bi%  pff  to  crown  their  pranks,  never  dreaming  they'd  see  him  again;  if  he 
didn't  freeze  or  drown,  they  reckoned,  he'd  be  shocked  fair  sober  by  the 
creek  and  skulk  away  home/' 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  633  ] 

In  fact,  however,  she  said,  they  laughed  not  half  an  hour  at  their  wit 
before  the  butt  of  it  reappeared,  returned  the  horse-brush,  and  called  for 
more  rum:  his  skin  was  rubbed  raw,  but  every  trace  of  the  bear-grease  was 
gone— and  his  liquor  as  well— and  he  showed  no  sign  of  chill  or  other 
discomfort  whatever.  While  they  marveled,  Billy  pressed  them  to  set  him  his 
next  ordeal,  and  by  unhappy  coincidence  Miss  Bromly  chose  this  least 
propitious  of  moments  to  re-enter  the  tavern  from  wherever  she  had  been, 
cross  the  room  in  disdainful  silence,  and  disappear  up  the  stairway  to  her 
loft.  Even  so,  nothing  further  might  have  come  of  it,  precisely  because  her 
appearances  invariably  captured  the  whole  attention  of  the  patrons;  it  was 
Billy  who  undid  himself  by  demanding  to  know  whose  woman  she  was. 

"Why,  Billy  Rumbly,  that's  the  Church  Creek  Virgin,"  the  miller  had 
answered,  still  blind  to  the  golden  presence  of  Opportunity.  "She's  no- 
body's woman  but  her  own,  is  that  piece  yonder/' 

"Now  she  is  Billy  Rumbly's  woman,"  the  Indian  had  declared,  and  had 
drawn  a  knife  from  his  belt.  "How  doth  an  English  Devil  take  a  wife? 
What  man  must  I  fight?  Where  is  the  Tayac  to  give  her  to  me?" 

Not  until  then  had  the  men  drawn  their  breath  in  wonder  at  the  vistas  of 
new  sport  that  lay  before  them.  They  looked  at  one  another  more  incredu- 
lously than  the  first  time  and  were  intimidated  by  the  magnitude  of  the 
lark;  almost  too  overrawed  to  set  it  in  motion. 

Not  surprisingly,  it  was  Harry  Russecks  who  had  spoken  first 

"Ye  say— ye  claim  the  Church  Creek  Virgin  for  your  wife?" 

At  once  Billy  had  moved  on  him  with  the  knife.  "This  is  your  house.  Is 
she  your  woman?  Do  you  speak  for  her?" 

"Now,  now,"  the  miller  had  soothed,  "put  up  your  knife,  Billy  Rumbly, 
and  behave  like  a  decent  Englishman,  or  she'll  have  naught  of  ye.  So  she's 
to  be  Mrs.  Billy  Rumbly,  is  she?  Well,  now!"  And  after  repeating  his 
earlier  assertion,  that  Miss  Bromly  had  none  to  answer  to  but  her  own 
good  conscience,  Russecks  declared  his  huge  satisfaction  with  the  match,  a 
sentiment  echoed  by  the  company  to  a  man. 

"But  don't  ye  know,  Billy  Rumbly,"  he  had  continued,  "'tis  not  just 
any  Englishman  deserves  a  fine  lass  like  the  Virgin  Bromly  yonder.  Ye 
know  the— what-d'ye-call-'em,  Sam?  Ordeals:  that's  the  rascal!— ye  know 
the  ordeals  of  an  English  bridegroom,  don't  ye,  lad?" 

As  all  had  hoped,  Billy  Rumbly  confessed  his  entire  ignorance  of  English 
nuptial  rites  and  was  enlightened  at  once  by  Russecks,  who  spoke  in  a 
solemn  and  supremely  confidential  tone: 

"In  the  first  place,  ye  dare  not  approach  an  English  virgin  with  marriage 


[634]  TEE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

in  mind  till  ye  have  at  least  a  dozen  o'  drams  to  fire  your  passion.  They 
loathe  a  sober  lover  like  the  pox,  do  our  London  lassies!  In  the  second  place 
ye  must  say  nary  a  word:  one  word,  mind  ye,  and  your  betrothal's  at  an 
end!  D'ye  follow  me,  Billy  Rumbly?  Tis  a  custom  with  us  English  Devils, 
don't  ye  know,  to  see  to't  no  shitten  pup-dogs  get  our  women.  No  talk, 
then;  not  a  word.  Ye  must  come  upon  her  privily,  like  a  hunter  on  a  doe— 
f  Christ,  won't  she  love  ye  for't  if  ye  can  catch  her  in  ambuscado  and  take 
her  maidenhead  ere  she  knows  what  wight  hath  climbed  her!  For  there's 
the  trick,  old  Billy,  old  Buck:  our  laws  declare  a  man  must  take  his  bride 
as  a  terrier  takes  his  bitch,  will-she,  nill-she,  and  the  more  she  fights  and 
hollows,  the  more  she  honors  ye  in  the  rape!  Is't  not  the  law  o'  the  land  I'm 
reading  him,  friends?" 

Now  the  others  had  entertained  nothing  more  serious  than  a  prank,  so 
they  all  claimed  afterwards  to  their  wives;  their  only  thought  was  to  have 
some  sport  with  a  drunken  Indian  at  the  expense  of  the  high-and-mighty 
Miss  Bromly.  'To  give  the  Church  Creek  Virgin  her  comeuppance,"  as 
they  put  it.  Nothing  more.  But  whether  because  they  dared  not  gainsay 
Sir  Harry  or  because  his  plan,  however  reprehensible,  was  altogether  too 
attractive  to  resist,  they  affirmed,  with  little  nods  and  murmurs,  that  such 
indeed  were  the  customs  of  the  English.  As  Billy  took  to  himself  the 
requisite  rum,  they  told  themselves  and  subsequently  their  wives  that  a 
man  with  twelve  drams  of  Barbados  in  his  bowels  was  no  more  dangerous 
than  a  eunuch  to  any  woman's  honor,  particularly  that  of  the  lady  in  the 
loft;  when  he  had  done  they  made  way  solemnly  for  Sir  Harry,  who  with 
final  hushed  injunctions  led  him  reeling  to  the  stairway  and  watched  him 
tiptoe  up  in  drunken  stealth. 

"Many,  and  to  think,"  groaned  Mary,  interrupting  her  narrative,  "  'twas 
Mattassin's  golden  likeness  they  made  a  fool  of!  Tis  like— oh,  God!— 'tis 
as  if  ye  made  a  pisspot  o'  the  Holy  Grail!" 

"Aye,  'twas  a  heartless  prank,"  Ebenezer  agreed,  "but  not  alone  for  Bill- 
o?-the-Goose!  Tis  poor  Meg  Bromly  I  fear  for,  and  I  tremble  to  think  how 
my  sister  Anna  comes  into  it,  if  she  doth  at  all.  Where  hath  she  been  while 
all  this  other  was  afoot?" 

"Nearer  than  ye  think,"  the  woman  answered  grimly. 

"Then  get  on  with't,"  their  host  suggested,  who  appeared  to  be  no  less 
engrossed  than  was  the  poet  in  her  story.  "I've  heard  what  I've  heard,  but 
there's  many  a  change  been  rung  on  the  tale  of  Billy  Rumbly  these  few 
days.  Gets  so  a  wight  collects  'em,  like  tusk-shells  on  a  string." 

4<  Twas  Roxie  Russecks  I  heard  it  from,"  Mary  said,  "as  honest  a  gossip 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  635  ] 

as  ever  spread  the  news,  and  she  had  it  from  Sir  Harry  not  five  minutes 
after  it  happened.  Henrietta  heard  the  shot  all  the  way  from  the  mill  and 
ran  outside  to  see  whence  it  came— for  all  Sir  Harry  wallops  her  just  for 
showing  her  face  at  the  window.  But  when  she  saw  folks  running  to  her 
father's  tavern-shop  she  had  perforce  to  fetch  her  mother  to  get  the  news, 
and  the  Indian  was  gone  in  a  trail  o'  blood  when  Roxie  got  there  .  .  ." 

'The  shot!"  Ebenezer  broke  in.  "Did  you  say  Miss  Bromly  shot  him?" 

Mary  raised  a  fat  forefinger.  "I  said  the  poor  salvage  was  wounded  and 
gone,  with  his  own  sweet  blood  to  mark  his  path:  that's  all  I  said." 

"But  who  else " 

"When  Roxie  got  to  the  tavern"— she  pressed  on— "there  was  blood  on 
the  ground,  blood  on  the  gallery,  blood  all  over  the  floor.  The  men  were 
fair  sobered,  ye  may  wager,  but  too  shamed  to  look  her  in  the  eye;  as  for 
Harry,  that  was  braying  like  a  jackass  at  his  bloody  prank,  she  could  get  no 
sense  from  him  at  all.  TChrist,  f  Christ!'  was  all  he'd  say.  'Did  ye  see  the 
fool  a-hopping  and  a-croaking  like  a  new-gelt  frog?'  Then  off  he'd  bray  and 
say  no  more." 

"Miss  Bromly!"  Ebenezer  demanded.  "I  must  know  what  happened  to 
Miss  Bromly!  Was't  she  that  shot  the  poor  wretch?" 

"  Twas  the  Church  Creek  Virgin,  whate'er  her  name,"  Mary  said  tersely. 
"The  salvage  had  dragged  her  as  far  as  the  pallet  ere  she  could  lay  hands 
on  her  pistol,  and  all  the  while  he  mauled  her  she  hollowed  'Henry!  Henry!' " 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head.  "  'Sheart,  I  don't  wonder!  Belike  she  thought 
'twas  her  London  tutor  in  disguise,  or  gone  salvage  like  Monsieur 
Casteene!" 

"Whate'er  her  thoughts,  as  my  Charley  was  wont  to  say,  she  had  no  mind 
to  play  Lucretia  to  any  man's  Tarquin.  The  truth  is,  she  had  reckoned  from 
the  first  that  if  Sir  Harry  himself  did  not  try  for  her  maidenhead  one  day 
or  another,  he'd  send  some  drunken  lecher  to  try  it  for  him;  hence  the 
pistol,  always  charged  and  ready  to  fire.  Twas  in  her  coat  whene'er  she  set 
foot  down  the  stairway,  and  for  the  rest,  inasmuch  as  she  judged  her 
honor  to  be  most  in  peril  while  she  slept  and  the  men  caroused  below, 
she  kept  it  hid  beneath  her  pallet,  whence  she  could  snatch  it  at  the  first 
step  on  the  stairs.  The  trouble  was,  even  a  drunken  salvage  is  still  a  salvage 
to  the  core;  Billy  Rumbly  crept  upstairs  with  no  more  noise  than  a  Wiwash 
hunter  stalking  game,  and  the  first  she  knew  of  her  danger  was  when  he 
sprang  on  her  from  behind  and  laid  his  knife  against  her  throat!" 

McEvoy  clucked  his  tongue  sympathetically.  "How  did  she  manage  to 
fetch  the  pistol?" 


[636]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"There's  the  rub  oft."  Mary  smiled.  "The  walls  were  broached  beyond 
defense,  and  naught  was  left  to  her  but  to  open  wide  the  gates,  surrender 
the  castle,  and  take  vengeance  against  the  invader  whilst  he  plundered/' 

"Ah  God!"  cried  Ebenezer.  "D'you  mean  the  poor  girl  lost  her  honor 
after  all?" 

"Not  yet,  though  every  man  thought  so,  as  I  did  when  I  heard  the  tale 
from  Roxie,  and  wondered  how  Billy  Rumbly  was  not  unstarched  by  the 
rum.  But  ye  forget,  Mr.  Cooke,  what  we  know  now:  he  is  Mattassin's 
brother,  and  by  your  own  statement  shares  my  Charley's  one  defect:  he 
carries  his  manhood  not  under  breeches  but  in  his  fancy,  where  rum  is 
more  a  virtue  than  a  burthen."  Mary  shivered  again.  "Nay,  now  I  think 
on't,  'tis  all  in  what  ye  mean  by  the  word:  no  brother  o'  Charley's  could 
ever  take  her  in  the  usual  way,  and  belike  she  hath  her  maidenhead  yet; 
but  I  know  well  he  was  at  her  honor  from  the  first  instant,  and  since  she 
was  obliged  to  let  him  fetch  her  to  the  pallet,  ye  may  be  sure  her  precious 
honor  was  well  tattered  by  the  time  she  got  there.  Then,  of  course,  she 
snatched  out  her  pistol  and  aimed  to  murther  him.  Howbeit,  her  shot  was 
low,  from  what  I  gather;  it  cut  him  inside  the  thigh  and  sent  him  packing 
like  a  wounded  rabbit.  E'en  then  Sir  Harry  couldn't  end  his  wretched  game: 
he  must  chase  after  poor  Billy  Rumbly  all  the  way  outside  and  hollow  Te 
wasn't  man  enough,  damn  ye,  Bill!  Try  her  again  in  a  fortnight!' " 

"But  Miss  Bromly  .  .  ."  said  the  poet. 

"Aye,  that's  the  end  o'  my  tale,  till  Harvey  tells  his  part  oft:  when 
Roxie  finally  learned  the  nature  of  her  husband's  prank  she  flew  upstairs 
to  look  after  Miss  Bromly  and  found  her  lying  like  a  lass  well-ravished  upon 
the  pallet,  with  the  pistol  still  a-smoking  in  her  hand.  And  for  all  her 
erstwhile  lordly  airs,  she  ran  to  Roxie  like  a  child  to  its  mother,  weeping 
and  a-hollowing  enough  for  two,  and  declared  that  albeit  she  was  as  much 
virgin  as  ever,  the  salvage  had  taken  a  host  of  liberties  with  her  person, 
insomuch  that  she  was  like  to  perish  of  shame.  'Tis  not  surprising  Roxie 
disbelieved  her— as  did  I  when  I  heard  oft  anon— and  said,  'Now,  now, 
Miss  Bromly,  what's  done  is  done,  and  feigning  shan't  undo  it;  thou'rt  no 
virgin  now,  if  in  sooth  ye  were  before,  but  I'm  convinced  thou'rt  no  com- 
mon trollop  either.  Come  live  with  me  and  my  daughter  at  the  mill,'  she 
said,  "and  we'll  soon  teach  ye  how  a  woman  can  have  sport  at  no  cost 
whate'er  to  her  purse,  her  pride,  or  her  precious  reputation.' " 

"Ah,  Mary,"  cautioned  their  host,  who  must  have  been  reading  her  lips, 
"don't  tell  tales,  now." 

Mary  replied  that  Mr,  Cooke  she  knew  to  be  a  perfect  gentleman,  and 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  637  ] 

since  McEvoy  knew  none  of  the  parties  involved,  she  saw  no  harm  in 
quoting  Mrs.  Russecks's  speech.  "Ye  know  full  well  she's  my  dearest  friend 
as  well  as  yours,  Harvey,  and  I  love  Henrietta  like  a  daughter.  These  gentle- 
men have  heard  already  what  a  beast  Sir  Harry  is,  and  can  well  imagine 
what  a  joy  'twould  be  to  have  him  for  husband  or  father;  'twere  as  well 
they  knew  this  much  more  to  go  with't— that  Roxie  and  Henrietta  have 
too  much  spirit  and  wit  by  far  not  to  pull  the  wool  o'er  the  great  swine's 
eyes  at  every  turn." 

The  trapper  was  still  not  entirely  pacified,  but  Ebenezer,  though  the 
mixed  metaphor  made  him  wince,  acknowledged  the  unknown  women's 
right  to  their  peccadilloes,  in  order  to  bring  Mary  back  to  her  story. 

"Aye,  Miss  Bromly"— Mary  sighed— "that  Roxie  tells  me  I  might  per- 
suade now  to  learn  my  trade." 

Understandably  sensitive  in  the  matter  of  outraged  innocence,  Ebenezer 
could  not  restrain  his  bitterness.  "Is  that  your  notion  of  a  grand  and  charita- 
ble woman,  that  takes  a  poor  girl  in  to  make  a  whore  of  her?  Unhappy 
Miss  Bromly!  Methinks  your  Mrs.  Russecks  is  no  better  than  her  husbandr 

"Gently,  gently,  Mr.  Cooke,"  Mary  said  calmly.  "Ye  forget  'tis  not  to 
Sir  Harry's  mill  I'm  bound  to  fetch  her,  but  to  the  house  of  her  English 
husband,  Mr.  Rumbly  .  .  ." 

"1'God!" 

"Let  me  finish,  now.  The  girl  was  that  distracted  by  her  rape  or  whate'er 
ye  choose  to  call  it,  she  commenced  to  shriek  and  gibber  like  a  bedlamite. 
Her  name  was  not  Meg  Bromly  at  all,  she  declared,  but  Anna  Cooke  o' 
Cooke' s  Point7  the  sister  o'  the  Laureate  Poet,  and  the  salvage  that  attacked 
her  was  no  salvage  at  all,  but  her  childhood  tutor " 

"Marry,  I  see  it  now!"  cried  the  poet.  "She  hath  been  Anna's  friend  and 
mine  since  we  were  children  inPlumtree  Street;  some  business  hath  brought 
her  to  Maryland,  and  she  had  planned  to  call  on  me  at  Maiden  until  she 
heard  of  my  disgrace  and  my  father's  wrath.  Aye,  'tis  clear!  The  poor  girl 
durst  not  go  near  the  infamous  place,  but  took  lodgings  in  Church  Creek 
while  she  made  enquiries  about  me.  Tfaith,  another  lost  soul  upon  my 
conscience!  Poor,  poor  Miss  Bromly;  how  Anna  would  fly  to  aid  you  if  she 
knew!" 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Ebenezer's  feelings  were  mixed:  he  was  unspeakably 
relieved  to  think  that  the  ravished  Church  Creek  Virgin  had  not  been  his 
sister  but  concerned  at  the  same  time,  not  only  because  it  had  been  his 
sister's  friend  but  also  because  this  fact  rendered  Anna  as  lost  as  ever.  Now 
he  blanched,  for  a  new  thought  struck  him. 


[638]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Nay,  'tis  worse  yet!  Why  would  Miss  Bromly  be  in  Maryland  at  all,  if 
not  as  Anna's  companion?  Aye,  'sheart,  I  should  have  seen  it  from  the  first! 
They  traveled  together—what  could  be  more  likely?— and  when  they  heard 
how  things  fared  at  Maiden,  or  when  my  father  caught  up  with  Anna  and 
made  her  stay  with  him,  Miss  Bromly  took  it  upon  herself  to  seek  me  out— 
that's  it,  I'm  certain:  either  Joan  Toast  made  no  mention  of  me,  or  they 
disbelieved  her!  'Sheart,  'sheart,  miserable  girl!  How  many  more  will  be 
brought  low  on  my  account?  And  now,  whether  'tis  that  she  seeks  pity  by 
desperate  subterfuge  or  that  the  shock  of  rape  hath  deranged  her,,  she  calls 
herself  by  her  best  friend's  name,  and  thinks  'tis  Henry  Burlingame  hath 
undone  her!" 

"Tis  a  fact  she  sometimes  calls  her  husband  Henry?  Mary  allowed. 
"Roxie  said  as  much." 

"Stay,  now,"  McEvoy  said.  "Ye  left  the  wench  in  her  loft-room,  a-bab- 
bling  to  the  Russecks  woman,  and  now  she's  wife  to  the  wight  that  leaped 
her,  and  that  she  pistoled!  Ye've  o'erskipped  some  prime  piece  o'  the  tale, 
kss,  have  ye  not?" 

"That  I  have,  sir,"  Mary  nodded,  "for  'tis  Harvey's  piece  to  tell.  When 
the  girl  had  done  a-gibbering  she  fell  aswoon  in  Roxie's  arms  and  was 
fetched  senseless  to  share  Henrietta's  chamber  in  the  millhouse.  For  three 
days  Roxie  nursed  her  like  an  ailing  child,  and  on  the  fourth  she  disap- 
peared. No  man  hath  laid  eyes  on  her  from  that  day  to  this  save  Harvey 
here .  .  " 


11 :    THE  TALE  OF  BILLY  RUMBLY  IS  CONCLUDED  BY 
AN  EYE-WITNESS  TO  HIS  ENGLISHING.  MARY 
MUNGUMMORY  POSES  THE  QUESTION,  DOES 
ESSENTIAL  SAVAGERY  LURK  BENEATH  THE  SKIN  OF 
CIVILIZATION,  OR  DOES  ESSENTIAL  CIVILIZATION 
LURK  BENEATH  THE  SKIN  OF  SAVAGERY?-BUT  DOES 
NOT  ANSWER  IT 


MARY  FINISHED  SPEAKING  AND  LOOKED  EXPECTANTLY  AT  HARVEY  RUS- 

secks,  as  did  Ebenezer  and  John  McEvoy.  But  because  her  last  remark  had 
been  delivered  in  a  voice  lower  than  that  with  which  she  had  told  the  story 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  639  ] 

and  had  been  directed  specifically  to  McEvoy,  the  trapper  missed  it  and 
smiled  vacantly  back  at  them. 

"Tell  'em,  Harvey,"  she  prompted.  "What  happened  whilst  the  Church 
Creek  Virgin  was  a-swoon  at  Roxie's,  and  the  rest  of  it?" 

"Aye,  that's  true,  that's  true,"  Harvey  laughed,  not  yet  conceiving  exactly 
what  she  said.  Ebenezer  concluded  that  the  older  man's  mind  must  have 
been  wandering,  for  he  had  caught  up  the  earlier  remark  about  Mrs. 
Russecks  at  once.  "  Twas  when  I  went  out  on  the  trap  line  in  the  morning 
—ice  all  over  the  marsh,  don't  ye  know,  and  muskrats  frozen  in  the  snares 
—I  spied  a  campfire  down  the  line  and  walked  over  to't  to  thaw  my  finger- 
joints,  and  there  lay  this  salvage  with  the  bloody  breeches,  his  head  shaved 
most  unnaturally,  and  his  body  cold  as  death.  Twas  my  first  thought  he 
was  dead  o'  the  cold  or  the  loss  o'  blood,  and  another  two  hours  had  proved 
me  right;  but  I  felt  some  life  in  his  veins  beat  yet  and  resolved  to  fetch  him 
here  and  do  what  I  could  for  him.  The  wound  I  found  no  great  matter,  for 
all  the  blood;  whoe'er  had  shot  him— I'd  heard  naught  o*  his  story  then, 
don't  ye  know— whoever  shot  him  had  missed  the  great  vein  and  only  cut 
through  the  flesh  and  skin.  I  washed  and  bound  it,  and  forced  some  hot 
broth  on  the  fellow  directly  he  could  open  his  mouth,  and,  b'm'faith,  what 
a  stout  wretch  he  proved!  As  nigh  as  the  very  latch-string  to  death's  doorway, 
and  an  hour  later  he  had  his  senses  again,  if  not  his  strength.  When  I'd  won 
his  trust  he  told  me  his  tale  as  best  he  grasped  it,  and  inasmuch  as  I'd 
heard  o'  the  Church  Creek  Virgin  and  knew  my  brother's  humor  besides, 
it  wanted  small  philosophy  to  guess  the  rest. 

"I  told  him  he'd  been  the  butt  .of  a  vicious  prank  (the  which  he  saw 
plainly  when  I  explained  it)  and  offered  to  ask  for  the  five  pounds  sterling 
Harry  had  robbed  him  of;  he  thanked  me  kindly,  in  the  plainest  English 
I  e'er  heard  salvage  speak,  and  declared  the  whole  oft  was  mine  for  rescuing 
him,  if  I  could  get  it.  Now  ye  dare  not  refuse  a  salvage's  gift,  lest  he  think 
thou'rt  insulting  him,  and  so  I  dedared  I'd  take  two  shillings  for  my  trouble 
and  deliver  the  rest  to  him.  All  the  while  we  spoke  he  had  been  casting 
his  eyes  about  the  room,  and  anon  he  asked  me,  Would  I  sell  him  my 
house?  and  Would  five  pounds  purchase  it?  I  replied  'twas  not  worth  it  by 
half,  but  I'd  no  mind  to  sell,  and  as  he  showed  such  eagerness  to  live  in  an 
English  cabin  I  told  him  of  an  old  one  I  owned  near  Tobacco  Stick  Bay, 
not  far  from  Church  Creek,  that  was  falling  to  ruin  for  lack  o'  tenants,  and 
declared  he  could  live  in't  without  rent  if  he'd  trouble  himself  to  repair  it. 
Ye  might  think  that  an  odd  piece  o'  charity  on  such  short  acquaintance, 
but  this  half-breed  had  an  air  about  him— I've  not  the  words  for't,  sirs. 


[6.AO]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Twas  as  if ...  d'ye  know  those  stories  o'  kings  and  princes  that  prowl  the 
streets  in  Scotch  cloth?  Or  better,  the  tales  of  Old  Nick  posing  as  a  mortal 
man  to  bargain  for  souls?  The  while  we  talked  I  half  expected  to  smell 
brimstone  in  the  air,  and  when  he  took  off  his  moccasins  to  warm  his  feet 
on  the  hob,  'twas  almost  a  surprise  to  see  he  had  toes  like  yours  and  mine, 
and  not  cloven  hoofs!  He  was  uncommon  quick  in  his  mind,  was  this 
salvage,  and  gave  me  to  feel  that  had  he  been  reared  English  from  the 
cradle  he'd  have  been  another  Cromwell,  or  what  ye  will.  Tis  no  mystery 
to  me  Miss  Bromly  took  him  for  her  tutor  in  disguise;  with  a  fortnight's 
practice  lie  could  pass  for  a  don  of  Oxford,  I  am  sure  oft,  and  two  years 
hence  for  a  sunburnt  Aristotle!  There's  many  a  man  I  have  no  use  for, 
gentlemen,  and  it  struck  me  from  the  first  this  salvage  would  play  me  false 
if  need  be,  to  gain  his  ends;  but  he  had  that  power  of  attraction— how  doth 
a  man  speak  of  it?  Will-ye,  nill-ye,  ye  felt  that  if  his  purposes  and  yours 
weren't  one,  ye  had  your  own  shortsightedness  to  blame  for't,  and  if  he 
sold  ye  short,  'twas  that  your  stuff  was  the  stuff  o'  pawns  and  not  o'  heroes— 
to  this  hour  he  hath  done  me  no  injury,  but  that  day  I  was  driven  to  forgive 
him  in  advance,  in  my  heart,  for  aught  he  might  do  mel" 

"Ah,"  Ebenezer  said. 

"In  any  case,  he  slept  here  that  night,  and  albeit  I'd  reckoned  his  wound 
would  be  some  days  a-mending,  next  morning  I  found  him  gone.  My 
first  thought  was,  he  had  set  out  to  revenge  himself  on  my  brother — " 
The  trapper  blushed,  but  his  eyes  narrowed.  "God  forgive  me  or  condemn 
me,  as't  please  Him:  I  made  no  move  at  all  to  warn  Harry  of  his  danger, 
but  went  out  to  my  line  o'  traps  as  usual.  There  was  a  heavy  frost  that 
morning,  I  remember,  and  over  by  Raccoon  Creek,  on  a  stretch  o'  high 
ground  betwixt  the  fresh  marsh  and  the  salt  marsh,  I  commenced  to  see 
bear  tracks  in  the  frost  along  the  path,  and  even  a  bear  stool  so  fresh  'twas 
not  e'en  froze,  but  lay  a-steaming  in  the  path.  Not  long  after,  near  the 
end  o'  the  line,  I  saw  moccasin-prints  in  with  the  bear  tracks,  and  inasmuch 
as  they  were  not  half  an  hour  old,  I  took  the  trouble  to  follow  'em  out, 
just  to  see  what  fortune  the  salvage  might  have:  'twas  late  in  the  year  for 
bears  to  be  about. 

"Anon  the  trail  led  me  to  a  little  stand  o'  hardwoods,  and  I  could  hear 
Mr.  Bear  a-grumbling  up  ahead.  By's  track  he  was  no  giant,  nor  yet  a  baby 
either,  but  I  had  no  weapon  on  me  save  my  skinning-knife,  and  so  I  crept 
toward  the  sound  as  quietly  as  I  could  manage.  'Twas  no  great  trick  to  find 
bto,  he  was  growling  so;  I  came  on  a  little  clearing  and  there  he  was,  a 
fat  black  rascal  that  hadn't  bedded  down  for  the  winter.  He  was  a  male,  not 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  641  ] 

quite  full-grown— on  his  hind  legs  he  would've  stood  as  high  as  your  shoulder 
—and  he  was  worrying  a  rotten  piece  o'  log  to  get  the  grubs  on't.  I'd 
just  commenced  to  wonder  where  the  salvage  had  got  to,  when  a  hand 
came  down  on  my  shoulder,  and  there  stood  Billy  Rumbly  himself,  looking 
wise  and  cheerful  as  ye  please.  He  led  me  farther  down  wind  and  out  of 
earshot  and  told  me  he  meant  to  kill  the  bear  unless  I  laid  a  claim  on't. 

"  'Why,  Billy/  says  I,  *  'tis  not  likely  I'll  take  on  a  bear  with  a  skmning- 
knife  so  long  as  I'm  sane  and  sober,  and  I'd  urge  no  fellow  man  to  try 
such  tricks.'  For  I  saw  he  had  no  weapons  on  him  save  his  two  bare  hands. 
But  he  only  smiled  and  declared  he'd  show  me  a  trick  he'd  learnt  from 
some  western  salvages,  that  were  said  to  use  it  as  a  test  o*  courage  when 
two  men  quarreled  o'er  some  woman's  favors.  I  judged  'twould  be  worth 
the  danger  o'  watching,  nor  was  I  mistaken— nay,  i'Christ,  'twas  the  oddest 
piece  o'  hunting  I  e'er  shall  behold  in  my  life! 

"The  first  thing  he  did  was  find  two  straight  saplings,  one  no  thicker 
than  your  thumb  and  the  other  twice  as  thick,  and  snapped  'em  off  low 
in  a  certain  way  so  that  the  break  was  a  hand's-breath  long.  I  offered  him 
my  knife  to  point  'em,  albeit  'tis  no.  tool  for  whittling,  but  he  declared 
'twas  a  breach  o'  the  rules  to  use  a  knife  or  any  weapon  thrown  from  the 
hands,  and  made  the  best  oft  by  peeling  back  splinters  from  the  break. 
One  sapling  he  made  a  rough  spear  from  by  stripping  off  the  branches, 
.and  the  other  he  broke  off  short  for  a  kind  of  dagger;  then  we  crept 
to  the  clearing,  where  Mr.  Bear  was  scratching  his  back  against  a  tree, 
and  for  all  the  frost  had  scarce  commenced  to  melt,  Billy  fetched  off  all 
his  clothes,  picked  up  his  sticks,  and  stepped  out  into  the  clearing  dressed 
in  naught  but  the  rag-strip  bandage  on  his  thigh." 

The  two  men  marveled,  and  Ebenezer  observed  that  Mary  had  set  her 
jaw  and  closed  her  eyes. 

"The  bear  left  off  scratching  and  watched  him  make  some  salvage  sort 
o'  prayer.  But  when  Billy  moved  toward  him  he  ambled  off  round  the 
edge  of  the  clearing.  Billy  set  out  at  a  run,  hollowing  some  gibberish  or 
other,  but  instead  o'  turning  on  him  or  running  off  down  the  path,  the 
bear  made  for  a  stout  young  oak  near  the  middle  o'  the  clearing  and  com- 
menced to  climb.  I  stepped  out  and  called  'Bad  luck,  Billy,'  for  I  never 
doubted  the  chase  was  done;  but  the  bear  was  scarce  off  the  ground  ere 
Billy  was  climbing  after  him,  pole  in  his  hand  and  dagger  'twixt  his  teeth, 
and  never  a  care  how  the  rough  bark  flayed  him  as  he  climbed!  At  the 
first  branches,  twice  your  height  off  the  ground,  the  bear  stopped  to  look 
down,  and  grumbled  and  waved  his  forepaw.  Billy  shinnied  up  close  and 


[  642  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

poked  as  best  as  he  could  without  a  proper  purchase,  but  he  got  no  more 
for  his  pains  than  louder  growl.  I  offered  to  fetch  him  a  longer  pole,  and 
learned  'twas  a  breach  o'  his  murtherous  rules  to  take  help  from  any  wight 
soever  or  change  weapons  once  ye've  touched  the  bear— I'll  own  I  felt 
then,  and  feel  yet^  he  was  hatching  these  customs  as  he  went  along,  but 
fact  or  figment,  he  followed  'em  like  Holy  Orders. 

"In  lieu  of  changing  weapons,  he  changed  his  plan  o'  battle  and  com- 
menced to  jab  at  the  bear's  face,  taking  care  the  monster  didn't  catch 
the  pole  in  his  teeth  or  strike  it  out  o'  his  hand.  I  guessed  'twas  his  object 
to  drive  the  bear  farther  up  the  trunk  and  gain  the  branches  for  himself, 
where  he  could  do  more  damage  with  his  spear,  but  instead  the  animal 
moved  around  the  trunk  to  protect  his  face,  and  hung  his  great  hindquar- 
ters right  over  Billy's  head.  Yet  so  far  from  giving  o'er  the  bout  or  scram- 
bling away  ere  the  great  brute  struck  him,  Billy  seemed  as  pleased  as  if 
'twas  fust  what  he'd  designed:  he  gave  a  whoop  and  thrust  his  pole  as  far 
as  ever,  where  I  need  not  mention!  The  bear  gave  a  squeal  and  tried  to 
get  at  the  spear  with  his  forepaws,  but  Billy  thrust  deeper;  he  climbed  a 
little  distance  up  the  trunk  and  was  undone  the  more  by  slipping  back, 
and  at  length  he  fell,  with  such  a  hollowing  as  ye  never  heard.  In  that 
same  instant  Billy  was  on  him;  he  drove  the  short  stake  in  his  throat  and 
sprang  away  ere  I  myself  had  grasped  the  fact  that  the  bear  was  down. 

"By  the  time  I  found  a  tree  o'  my  own  to  hide  behind,  the  bear  was  on 
his  feet  and  thrashing  after  the  pole,  that  still  stuck  out  behind.  All  the 
while,  Billy  stood  empty-handed  in  plain  view,  not  three  yards  off,  and 
goaded  the  bear  to  attack  him;  when  he  did,  Billy  led  him  five  times  round 
the  oak  tree,  and  the  poor  brute  fell  down  dead." 

^Many!"  said  McEvoy.  "  Tis  as  brave  a  trick  as  I've  heard  of  I" 

"^?d.as  g0ry'"  Ebenezer  added>  speaking  loudly  for  the  trapper's  bene- 
fit. "Tis  a  wondrous  tale,  Mr.  Russecks,  and  yet— you  must  pardon  my 
rudeness— I  cannot  but  wonder  what  this  feat  hath  to  do  with  my  poor 
dishonored  friend  Miss  Bromly." 

"Nay,  friend,  there's  naught  to  pardon/'  Harvey  replied.  "I  wondered 
the  same  myself,  the  while  I  watched,  why  it  was  he  had  set  out  half 
mended  to  match  his  strength  with  a  bear's,  when  all  the  evening  past  he 
had  talked  o'  naught  save  the  laws  and  customs  o'  the  English.  He  had 
been  that  eager  and  quick  a  scholar,  ye'd  have  thought  he  was  training 
for  a  place  in  Court-but  look  at  him  now,  astride  o'  his  kill  to  drink  the 
hot  blood  ere  the  brute's  fair  dead!  TTie  very  type  and  essence  of  the  sal- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  643  ] 

vage!  But  I  had  not  long  to  wonder,  nor  shall  you,  sir,  if  ye'll  but  hold 
with  me. 

"When  Billy  had  drunk  his  fill  he  went  to  the  creek  and  washed  his 
body  from  toe  to  toe,  for  albeit  the  bear  had  not  so  much  as  scratched 
him,  the  tree-bark  had  cut  him  as  raw  as  a  keelhauled  sailor,  and  he  was 
dirty  and  all  a-sweat  besides.  E'en  now  the  rules  he'd  set  himself  were  in 
force;  he  would  have  none  o'  my  skinning-knife,  but  commenced  to  flay 
the  carcass  with  an  oystershell  from  the  creek,  and  albeit  he  allowed 
me  to  make  a  fire,  he  stayed  naked  as  Adam  till  his  work  was  done.  'Twere 
a  half-day's  labor  to  flay  out  such  a  beast  with  a  wretched  shell,  and  I  feared 
he'd  catch  his  death  ere  the  chore  was  done;  but  he  made  me  a  gift  o' 
both  hide  and  meat,  declaring  he  craved  nor  the  one  nor  the  other,  and 
flayed  no  more  o'  the  carcass  than  was  required  to  lay  back  a  deal  o'  fat. 
This  he  gouged  by  the  gobbet  onto  a  foot-square  piece  o'  the  pelt,  the 
which  he  had  reserved  for  himself,  and  then  skewered  o'er  the  fire  till  it 
commenced  to  render.  His  object,  as  I  saw  at  once,  was  to  lard  himself 
with  bear-grease  from  heel  to  hair,  as  is  the  wont  of  many  salvages  from 
time  to  time,  and  as  he  worked  I  began  to  fear  that  betwixt  this  bear-hunt 
and  the  happenings  of  the  day  before,  there  was  a  certain  dark  connection. 
Nor  was  I  wide  o'  the  mark,  for  when  he  was  greased  as  a  griskin  and  reeking 
like  Old  Ned's  lamp,  he  gorged  himself  on  the  balance  o'  the  fat  and  then 

took  up  his  oystershell  once  more  and  gelded  the  bear " 

Ebenezer  and  McEvoy  expressed  their  bewilderment  and  shock,  but  Mary, 
who  had  been  so  withdrawn  throughout  that  one  wondered  whether  she 
was  entranced  or  asleep,  now  opened  her  eyes  and  sighed  a  knowing,  com- 
passionate sigh.  "  Twas  what  I  expected,  and  less  than  I  hoped  for,  Harry. 
And  Roxie  is  mistaken— 'twere  a  waste  o'  time  for  me  to  see  her,  don't 
ye  think?  Ah  well,  in  any  case  the  story's  clear." 

"Haply  'tis  clear  to  you,"  complained  the  poet,  "but  I  grasp  naught  oft." 
"  Tis  no  deep  mystery,"  the  trapper  declared.  "What  the  bull  hath  always 
signed  to  civil  folk,  the  male  bear  signifies  to  the  salvage  Indian.  But  not 
only  do  they  look  on  him  as  the  emblem  o'  virility;  they  hold  farther  that 
his  carcass  is  great  medicine  in  matters  o'  love.  Hence  the  manner  of  his 
killing,  that  Billy  had  explained  before,  and  hence  that  larding  with  his 
hibernation-fat,  the  which  they  say  feeds  the  fires  o'  love  as  it  warms  the 
bear  in  winter  months.  As  for  the  other,  'tis  widely  believed  in  the  salvage 
nations  that  if  a  man  lay  hold  of  a  buck-bear's  privates,  bind  'em  up  in  a 
pouch  o'  the  uncured  pelt,  and  belt  'em  so  with  a  bearhide  thong  that  they 
hang  before  his  own,  then  his  potency  will  be  multiplied  by  the  bear'% 


[644]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

and  Heav'n  help  the  first  poor  wench  that  crosses  his  path!  I  asked  him, 
'Is't  the  Church  Creek  girl  thou'rt  bound  for?'  And  albeit  he  would  not 
answer  me  directly,  he  smiled  a  dev'lish  smile  and  said  'twould  please  him 
no  end  if  I'd  pay  him  a  call  some  day  or  two  hence,  when  he  and  Mrs. 
Rumbly  had  found  my  cabin  on  Tobacco  Stick  Bay  and  set  up  house- 
keeping! By's  speech  ye'd  take  him  for  a  merry  English  gentleman;  yet 
there  he  stood  like  the  living  spirit  o'  salvage  lust!  Much  as  I  feared  for 
the  poor  girl's  honor,  I  pled  with  Billy  Rumbly  to  move  with  caution,  in- 
asmuch as  I  supposed  she'd  be  on  her  guard  to  shoot  him  dead.  But  he 
said,  'No  English  pistol  e'er  killed  a  bear,'  and  went  his  way." 

"Now  'tis  plain,"  McEvoy  said.  "He  carried  her  off  and  keeps  her  hid 
in  the  cabin  ye  spoke  of!  How  is't  the  sheriff  hath  made  no  move  to  find 
her?" 

"Tis  also  plain  thou'rt  innocent  of  provincial  justice,"  Ebenezer  put 
in  bitterly.  "Only  the  virtuous  run  afoul  of  the  law  in  Maryland." 

"Nay,  now,  ye  put  your  case  too  strongly,"  said  the  trapper.  "We've 
laws  enough  in  the  statute-books,  and  just  ones,  and  our  courts  are  as 
sound  as  England's  are,  in  principle;  but  'tis  a  wild  and  lawless  bailiwick 
they  deal  with— frauds  and  pirates  and  whores  and  adventurers,  jailbirds 
and  the  spawn  o'  jailbirds— and  what's  worse,  as  yet  there's  no  real  power 
behind  the  law.  No  right  without  might,  as  folks  say.  I  don't  wonder  the 
courts  go  wrong,  or  a  judge  or  two  sells  justice  o'er  the  bar;  at  least  the 
judges  and  courts  are  there,  and  we'll  make  tfieir  judgments  honest  when 
we've  the  power  to  make  'em  stick— which  is  to  say,  when  the  spirit  o' 
the  folk  at  large  is  curbed  and  snaffled." 

Ebenezer's  cheeks  tingled,  and  not  alone  because  he  felt  that  he  had 
in  fact  overstated  his  indictment  with  a  fervid,  adolescent  sort  of  right- 
eousness: his  day  in  the  Cambridge  court  still  rankled  in  his  memory, 
and  the  price  of  it  drew  a  sweat  from  all  his  pores;  but  his  wholesale  rancor 
had  got  to  be  something  of  a  disposition,  and  he  had  been  alarmed  to 
recognize,  as  the  trapper  spoke,  that  he  fell  into  it  of  late,  on  mention 
of  certain  subjects,  more  from  habit  than  from  honest  wrath.  So  grossly  had 
Maryland  used  him,  he  had  vowed  to  smirch  her  name  in  verse  to  his 
children's  children's  children;  could  such  outrages  dwindle  to  the  like  of 
actors'  cues?  It  was  by  no  progress  of  reason  that  he  reached  this  question, 
but  by  a  kind  of  insight  that  glowed  in  his  mind  as  the  blood  glowed  in 
his  face.  By  its  troubled  light;  in  no  more  time  than  was  required  for  him 
to  murmur,  "I  daresay"  to  Harvey  Russecks,  he  beheld  the  homeless  ghosts 
of  a  thousand  joys  and  sorrows  meant  to  live  in  the  public  heart  till  the 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  645  ] 

end  of  time:  feast  days,  fast  days,  monuments,  and  rites,  all  dedicated  to 
glories  and  disasters  of  a  magnitude  that  dwarfed  his  own,  and  all  forgotten, 
or  rotely  observed  by  a  gentry  numb  to  the  emotions  that  established  them. 
A  disquieting  vision  indeed,  and  no  less  disquieting  to  the  poet  was  his 
response  to  it.  Not  long  since,  he  would  have  gnashed  his  spiritual  teeth 
at  the  futility  of  endeavor  in  such  a  cosmos.  Not  improbably  he  would 
have  railed  at  human  fickleness  in  allegorical  couplets:  the  Heart,  he  would 
have  declared,  is  a  faithless  Widow:  at  the  deathbed  of  her  noble  Spouse 
(whether  Triumph  or  Tragedy)  she  pledges  herself  forever  to  his  mem- 
ory, but  scarcely  has  she  donned  her  Weeds  before  some  importuning 
Problem  has  his  way  with  her;  and  in  the  years  that  follow,  for  all  her 
ceremonious  visits  to  the  tomb,  she  throws  open  her  chamber  door  and 
shares  her  bed  with  a  parade  of  mean  Vicissitudes,  not  one  of  them  worthy 
even  of  her  notice.  Now,  however,  though  such  fickleness  still  stung  his 
sensibilities  (which  is  to  say  his  vanity,  since  he  identified  himself  with  the 
late  Husband) ,  he  was  not  sure  but  what  it  had  about  it  a  double  tightness: 
"Time  passes  for  the  living,"  it  seemed  to  say,  "and  alters  things.  Only 
for  the  dead  do  circumstances  never  change."  And  this  observation  implied 
a  judgment  on  the  past,  its  relation  to  and  importance  in  the  present;  a 
judgment  to  which  he  currently  half  assented— but  only  half  I 

The  trapper  resumed.  "  Twas  just  a  few  days  later  I  saw  Billy  again, 
coming  out  of  Trinity  Church— aye,  I  swear't,  just  a  Sunday  since!  He  was 
knee-hosed  and  periwigged  like  any  English  gentleman,  not  a  trace  o'  bear- 
grease  on  him,  and  for  all  some  folk  misdoubted  what  to  make  of  him, 
the  rector  and  he  shook  ha'nds  at  the  door  and  spoke  their  little  pleasantries 
as  cordial  as  ye  pleasel  When  I  drew  nigh  I  heard  him  chatting  with  a 
brace  o'  sot-weed  planters  in  better  English  periods  than  yell  hear  in  the 
Governor's  Council;  ye'd  have  thought  him  a  sunburnt  Thomas  Lawrence, 
I  declare!  His  companions  were  two  of  the  same  that  had  tricked  him 
before,  but  ye'd  ne'er  have  guessed  it  from  their  manner:  the  one  was 
inviting  him  to  join  the  church,  and  the  other  was  arguing  with  him  about 
next  year's  sot-weed  market. 

"  'This  here's  Mr.  Rumbly,'  they  said  to  me,  'as  decent  a  Christian  gentle- 
man as  ever  shat  on  sot-weed/  At  sight  o'  me  Billy  smiled  and  bowed, 
and  said,  'I've  already  had  the  honor,  thankee,  gentlemen:  Mr.  Russecks 
was  generous  enough  to  lend  me  one  of  his  cabins  against  the  day  I  raise 
a  house  of  my  own.'  We  twain  shook  hands  most  warmly,  and,  do  ye  know, 
I  was  the  envy  of  no  fewer  than  half  a  dozen  souls  round  about,  so  jealous 
were  they  grown  already  of  his  favorl  Billy  declared  he  had  a^  call  or  two 


[646]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

to  pay,  after  which  he  wished  I'd  take  dinner  at  his  cabin,  and  when  he'd 
strolled  off,  his  courtiers  gathered  round  me  like  fops  round  a  new-dubbed 
knight.  From  them  I  learned  that  the  Church  Creek  Virgin  had  set  out 
one  day  from  Roxanne's  house  and  disappeared,  nor  was  heard  from  after 
till  the  day  Billy  Rumbly  came  to  town,  dressed  in  his  English  clothes, 
and  declared  she  was  his  bride.  Some  said  he  had  made  a  prisoner  of  her, 
and  told  stories  of  seeing  him  torture  her  over  the  hearth  fire  and  what 
all,  but  others  that  had  spied  on  him  too  declared  she  could  leave  the 
cabin  whene'er  she  pleased  and  stayed  with  him  of  her  own  will.  To  them 
that  took  the  liberty  of  calling  for  a  proper  Christian  wedding,  he  replied 
that  naught  would  please  him  more,  but  his  wife  was  content  with  the 
Indian  ceremony  he  had  performed  himself  and  would  have  no  other,  nor 
would  he  oblige  her  against  her  will. 

"In  any  case,  albeit  'twas  but  a  short  time  since  that  first  appearance, 
and  there  was  still  some  talk  against  him  here  and  there,  Billy  seemed 
to  have  won  the  heart  of  every  woman  in  Church  Creek  and  the  respect 
of  nearly  all  the  men.  His  dress  and  manner  were  more  English  than 
the  Governor's,  and  with  the  foreign  cast  of  his  skin  and  speech  they  made 
him  seem  like  some  potentate  in  mufti:  a  prince  o'  Persia,  don't  ye  know, 
on  tour  o'  the  English  provinces.  He  hath  great  plans  for  improving  every- 
thing from  the  sot-weed  market  to  the  penal  code,  as  I  hear't,  and  albeit 
no  man  would  speak  out  and  say't— me  being  a  Russecks,  ye  know— 'twas 
clear  they  looked  to  Billy  to  stand  up  to  my  brother  Harry  soon  or  late. 
They  have  changed  allegiance  well-nigh  to  a  man;  Bill/s  too  strong  and 
full  o'  plans,  and  Sir  Harry's  too  jealous  of  his  power,  for  the  twain  not 
to  come  to  grips.  What's  more,  rumor  hath  it  'twas  Harry  drove  Miss  Bromly 
to  run  off,  from  trying  to  have  his  way  with  her— as  I  can  well  believe 
he'd  do,  though  'twere  in  Roxanne's  very  presence—and  everyone  reasoned 
Billy  would  have  satisfaction  of  the  wretch  when  the  right  time  came, 

"On  our  way  to  the  cabin~I  forgot  to  tell  ye  I  was  the  first  wight 
he'd  invited  into  his  house  and  was  envied  the  more  fort— on  the  way 
out  there  I  told  Billy  frankly  what  I'd  heard  of  him  and  asked  him  to  sort 
out  fact  from  fancy,  but  he  was  so  full  of  his  own  questions  about  every- 
thing under  the  sun,  he  made  me  no  proper  answer.  Why  could  not  the 
tobacco  planters  form  a  guild,  he  wanted  to  know,  to  bargain  with  the 
Lords  Commissioners  of  Trade  and  Plantations?  Who  was  Palestrina,  and 
did  I  think  a  man  of  forty  was  too  old  to  learn  the  harpsichord?  Why  did 
Copernicus  suppose  the  sun  stood  still,  when  it  and  its  planets  might  be 
moving  together  through  space?  If  a  sincere  Christian  ascetic  comes  to  take 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  647  ] 

true  pleasure  in  mortifying  the  appetites,  must  he  not  then  gratify  them 
in  order  to  mortify  them,  and  mortify  them  in  order  to  gratify  them,  and 
did  this  not  fetch  him  to  an  impasse?" 

"1'Christ!"  laughed  McEvoy.  "  Tis  I  he'd  fetch  to  an  impasse  with  those 
enquiries!  I'd  fetch  him  a  rap  on  the  skull!" 

Mary  Mungummory  shook  her  head.  "So  much  like  my  blessed  Charley, 
rest  his  soul!  Had  the  De'il's  own  packsack  o'  questions,  and  no  man's 
answers  pleased  him!" 

Ebenezer  pressed  the  trapper  for  tidings  of  Miss  Bromly:  had  the  Indian 
carried  her  off  by  main  strength  to  work  his  cruel  pleasures  on  her?  "  Tis 
e'er  the  lot  of  the  innocent  in  the  world,  to  fly  to  the  wolf  for  succor  from 
the  lion!  Innocence  is  like  youth,"  he  declared  sadly,  "which  is  vouchsafed 
us  only  to  expend  and  takes  its  very  meaning  from  its  loss." 

44  'Tis  just  that  makes  it  precious,  is't  not?"  asked  McEvoy  with  a  smile. 

"Nay,"  Mary  countered,  "  'tis  just  that  proves  its  vanity,  to  my  way  o' 
thinking." 

"  'Tis  beyond  me  what  it  proves,"  Ebenezer  said.  "I  know  only  that 
the  case  is  so." 

Russecks  then  went  on  to  say  that  he  had  found  the  cabin  (which  already 
he  had  ceased  to  think  of  as  his  own)  in  excellent  repair,  its  windows 
newly  equipped  with  real  glass  panes  and  the  grounds  around  it  scrupulously 
clear  of  brush.  In  the  dooryard  stood  a  newly  constructed  sundial,  perhaps 
the  only  one  in  the  area,  and  atop  one  gable  was  a  platform  used  by  its 
builder  for  readier  observation  of  the  stars  and  planets. 

"He'd  mentioned  along  the  way  that  he'd  shot  a  young  buck  the  night 
before  and  was  waiting  till  Monday,  like  a  proper  Christian,  to  butcher 
it,  but  when  we  rode  around  the  cabin  I  spied  a  salvage  woman  up  to  her 
elbows  in  the  bloody  carcass,  cleaving  off  steaks  and  rump-roasts.  She  was 
dressed  in  dirty  deerskin  like  the  old  squaws  wear;  her  hair  was  coarse  and 
tangled,  and  her  brown  skin  greasy  as  a  bacon-flitch.  Her  back  was  turned 
to  us  as  we  rode  in,  and  she  paid  us  no  heed  at  all.  'Twas  on  my  mind  to 
twit  Billy  for  her  industry— tell  him  'twas  a  merry  bit  o'  Jesuitry,  don't  ye 
know,  setting  heathens  to  break  the  Sabbath  for  him— but  ere  ever  I  got 
the  words  out  he  addressed  her  in  the  salvage  tongue,  and  I  saw  when 
she  faced  round  'twas  no  Indian  woman  at  all.  I  could  only  gather,  she 
was  the  famous  Church  Creek  Virgin!" 

Ebenezer  and  McEvoy  registered  their  astonishment. 

"I'faith,  sirs,"  Russecks  proceeded,  "it  doth  give  a  civil  man  pause  when 


t  648  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

first  he  lays  eyes  upon  a  salvage,  fort  carries  him  back  to  view  the  low 
origin  of  his  history,  as't  were;  yet  by  how  much  rarer  is  the  spectacle  of 
one  of  his  own  kind  fallen  back  to  the  salvage  condition,  by  so  much 
more  confounding  is't  to  behold,  for  it  must  drive  home  to  him  how  strait 
and  treacherous  is  his  people's  climb  to  politeness  and  refinement— so  much 
so,  that  one  breath  of  inattention,  as't  were,  may  send  the  climber  a-plum- 
met  to  his  former  state.  This  thing  we  call  civilization — 'tis  an  island,  is't 
not?  Or  say  'tis  a  bumboat-load  o'  judges,  dons,  and  poets,  on  a  dark  and 
vasty  main  o'erwracked  with  storms.  And  in  the  civillest  among  us,  don't 
ye  know—in  Mister  Cooke  the  poet  there,  or  who  ye  will— this  precious 
cultivation — 'sheart,  sirs,  on  sight  of  one  like  Billy  Rumbly's  wife  ...  I" 
He  paused  and  started  over.  'What  I  mean,  sirs,  this  cultivation  of  our 
minds  and  souls  is  like  the  cultivation  of  our  fields,  so't  seems  to  me:  'tis 
all  order  and  purpose— and  wondrous  fruits  doth  it  bring  forth!— yet  'tis 
but  a  scratch,  is't  not;  on  the  face  of  unplumbable  deeps?  Two  turns  o* 
the  spade  cuts  through't  to  the  untouched  earth,  and  under  that  lies  a 
thousand  miles  o'  changeless  rock,  and  deeper  yet  lie  the  raging  hell-fires 
at  the  core  o'  the  world! 

"The  sensible  man,  I  say,  is  bound  to  reflect  on  these  things  when  he 
sees  one  of  his  own  gone  salvage  like  the  Church  Creek  Virgin.  She  was 
dressed  in  Indian  garb,  as  I  said  before,  and  was  pig-dirty  from  head  to 
foot.  She'd  browned  her  skin  with  dye,  so't  appeared,  and  basted  it  well 
with  bear-fat,  which  with  the  dirt  and  deer-blood  gave  her  a  splendid 
salvage  stink,  e'en  in  the  cold  out-o'-doors.  Never  a  glance  did  she  cast 
to  me,  but  stared  always  at  Billy  like  a  good  retriever,  and  at  his  command 
she  gave  o'er  hacking  the  buck  and  plodded  off  with  two  steaks  to  broil 
for  dinner." 

The  interior  of  the  cabin,  Russecks  went  on  to  say,  he  had  found  as 
clean  as  the  housekeeper  was  not,  who  in  the  heat  from  the  fireplace  grew 
redolent  as  a  tan  yard;  throughout  the  afternoon,  when  dinner  was  done, 
she  had  sat  stolidly  on  the  hearthrug,  Indian  fashion,  grinding  meal  in  an 
earthenware  mortar,  and  had  spoken  only  in  grunts  and  monosyllables  when 
Billy  addressed  her;  yet  though  her  manner  and  condition  were  slavelike, 
at  'no  time  had  the  trapper  observed  anything  suggestive  of  coercion  or 
intimidation. 

"In  sum,"  he  said,  "she  was  an  English  lass  no  longer,  but  a  simple 
salvage  squaw.  'Tis  my  best  guess  he  sought  her  out  in  his  bear-grease 
and  magical  loin-pouch  and  did  such  deeds  o'  salvage  love  and  ravishment 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  649  ] 

that  she  gave  o'er  the  reins  of  her  mind  for  good  and  all— as  I've  heard 
many  women  have  done  that  were  set  upon  by  a  band  o'  pirates  or  barb'- 
rous  soldiers " 

"Nay,  thou'rt  oft  the  mark/'  Mary  said  flatly.  "  Tis  that  he  made  such 
a  conquest  with  his  amorous  lore,  the  girl  renounced  her  Englishness  on 
the  spot  for  ever  and  aye.  I'd  wager  my  life  'tis  thus;  I  know  'tis  thus." 

No  one  questioned  her. 

"Ah,  but  I  loathe  the  monster  nonetheless!"  Ebenezer  said.  "E'en  grant- 
ing our  innocence  was  given  us  to  lose,  still  and  all— nay,  rather  therefore 
—its  whole  meaning  is  in  the  terms  of  its  surrender,  is't  not?  To  have 
it  wrested  will-ye,  nill-ye,  ravished  away "  He  tried  to  envision  the  strug- 
gle: he  was  in  the  position  of  Miss  Bromly,  forced  rudely  upon  her  back 
among  the  cold  briars  of  the  forest;  the  knife  was  at  his  neck,  his  coats 
were  flung  high,  the  wind  bit  his  thighs  and  private  parts;  and  over  him, 
naked  and  greased,  hung  a  swart,  ferocious  savage  with  the  face  and  her- 
petonic  eyes  of  Henry  Burlingame.  "God  damn  him  for'tl  How  the  wretch 
must  gloat  in  his  victory!" 

"How's  that?"  Russecks  showed  some  surprise  at  such  vehemence  and 
seemed  to  doubt  whether  he  had  heard  correctly.  "Gloat,  ye  say?  Ah,  well, 
now,  he  didn't  gloat,  ye  know*  Nay,  friend,  ye  forget  Billy  Rumbly  hath 
climbed  a  far  greater  distance  than  the  lass  hath  sunk;  aye,  e'en  higher 
by  far  than  the  station  she  left,  I'll  wager!  Such  a  civil,  proper  gentleman 
as  he  could  ne'er  take  pleasure  in  such  a  victory,  not  though  his  life  hung 
on't;  yet  'twas  the  conquest,  as  I  see't,  that  raised  him  up.  The  fact  is,  sirs, 
his  wife  is  a  constant  shame  to  him:  he  entreats  her  to  clean  herself  and 
dress  like  an  English  lady;  he  yearns  to  join  the  Church  and  have  a  Christian 
wedding;  naught  would  please  him  more  than  to  set  sail  tonight  for  Rome, 
or  an  English  university.  But  she  will  none  oft;  she  wallows  in  her  filth 
and  salvage  ways,  and  poor  Billy  is  too  much  the  man  of  honor  now 
either  to  desert  her  or  to  force  her  against  her  will!" 

Mary  Mungummory  shook  her  head,  "How  well  I  know  her  heart  and 
his  as  well!  I  wonder  again  what  oft  and  oft  I  wonder  as  I  watch  the  nightly 
circus  in  my  wagon:  is  man  a  salvage  at  heart,  skinned  o'er  with  fragile 
Manners?  Or  is  salvagery  but  a  faint  taint  in  the  natural  man's  gentility, 
which  erupts  now  and  again  like  pimples  on  an  angel's  arse?" 

For  Ebenezer,  at  least,  absorbed  in  recollection  of  certain  violences  in 
his  past,  the  question  was  by  no  means  without  pertinence  and  interest; 
as  before,  however,  neither  he  nor  the  other  men  ventured  a  response. 


12:    THE  TRAVELERS  HAVING  PROCEEDED 
NORTHWARD  TO  CHURCH  CREEK,  MCEVOY 
OUT-NOBLES  A  NOBLEMAN,  AND  THE  POET  FINDS 
HIMSELF  KNIGHTED  WILLY-NILLY 


SOON  AFTER  HARVEY  RUSSECKS  HAD  CONCLUDED  HIS  STORY  THE  COMPANY 

retired  for  the  night  on  clean  corn-husk  mattresses  provided  by  the  host, 
which,  with  a  plentiful  supply  of  good  blankets  from  Mary's  wagon,  afforded 
Ebenezer  and  McEvoy  the  most  comfortable  night's  lodging  they  had 
enjoyed  for  some  time.  The  poet,  however,  was  kept  sleepless  for  hours 
by  thoughts  of  his  sister,  the  gravity  of  his  mission,  and  the  most  unusual 
story  he  had  just  heard.  Next  morning  as  they  breakfasted  on  platters  of 
fried  eggs  and  muskrat— a  dish  they  found  more  pleasing  to  the  tongue 
than  to  the  eye— he  declared,  "I  had  cause  enough  before  to  find  this 
Cohunkowprets,  or  Billy  Rumbly,  for  he  may  be  the  means  of  sparing 
my  conscience  the  burthen  of  two  English  lives;  but  now  I've  heard  what 
state  Miss  Bromly  hath  fallen  to,  purely  out  of  loyalty  to  my  sister,  'tis 
more  urgent  than  ever  I  seek  the  fellow  out  and  try  to  save  her.  One 
ruined  life  the  more  on  my  account,  and  I'll  go  mad  with  responsibility!" 
"Nay,  friend,"  McEvoy  urged,  "I  respect  your  sentiments,  Heav'n  knows, 
but  think  better  of tl  Thou'rt  bound  to  save  our  hostages  from  Chicamec 
at  any  cost  to  yourself,  so  ye  declared,  and  ye've  shamed  me  into  the 
same  tomfoolish  honor.:  d'ye  think  this  Rumbly  fellow's  likely  to  oblige 
us  if  he  sees  thou'rt  after  wooing  his  wife  away?  And  if  he  turns  his  back 
on  us-i'faithl-'twill  not  be  two,  but  two  hundred  thousand  lives  ye 
may  answer  for;  with  Dick  Parker  and  that  other  wight  to  general  'em, 
not  all  the  militia  in  America  can  put  down  the  slaves  and  Indians!" 

"I  tremble  to  think  oft,"  said  Mary  Mungummory  from  her  station 
at  the  cook-fire.  "Don't  forget,  Mr.  Cooke,  whate'er  foul  play  brought 
the  girl  to  her  present  pass,  'tis  of  her  own  free  will  she  stays  there,"  Sud- 
denly she  gave  an  irritated  sigh  and  called  on  an  imaginary  tribunal  to 
witness  the  poet's  wrongheadedness.  "Marry,  sirs,  the  world's  about  to  ex- 
plode, and  he  concerns  himself  with  one  poor  slut's  misfortunes!" 

Ebenezer  smiled.  "Who's  to  say  which  end  of  the  glass  is  the  right  to 
look  through?  One  night  when  Burlingame  and  I  were  watching  the  stars 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  651  ] 

from  St.  Giles  in  the  Fields,  I  remarked  that  men's  problems,  like  earth's 
mountains,  amounted  to  naught  from  the  aspect  of  eternity  and  the  bound- 
less heavens;  and  Henry  answered,  'Quite  so,  Eben:  but  down  here  where 
we  live  they  are  mountainous  enough,  and  no  mistake!'  In  any  case,  I 
mean  to  do  what  I  can  for  Miss  Bromly.  I've  no  mind  to  prosecute  Billy 
Rumbly  for  rape— 'twere  a  vain  ambition  in  a  Maryland  court!— and  he'll 
not  object  to  my  solicitude,  if  I  have  his  case  aright  from  Mr.  Russecks." 

It  was  still  early  when  they  bade  the  trapper  good-bye  and  set  out  in 
Mary's  wagon  for  Church  Creek,  some  fifteen  or  twenty  miles  northward 
out  of  the  marshes;  though  the  journey  took  five  hours  or  more,  the  sun 
was  scarcely  past  the  meridian  when  they  arrived  at  the  little  settlement. 

"Yonder's  an  inn,"  McEvoy  said;  he  indicated  a  neat  frame  structure 
some  distance  ahead. 

"Aye,  there  we'll  go,  like  it  or  not/'  Mary  said,  "'tis  Sir  Harry's  place." 
She  explained  that  Harry  Russecks,  the  trapper's  notorious  brother,  flew  into 
a  dangerous  temper  when  visitors  to  the  town  failed  to  appear  before  him 
and  state  their  business.  "He  knows  mine  well  enough,  and  ye  twain  need 
say  no  more  than  that  I'm  ferrying  ye  to  Cambridge  on  business  for  the 
Governor/' 

"I  say,  he  is  a  high-handed  rascall"  Ebenezer  cried.  "What  right  hath 
he  to  pry  into  everyone's  affairs?" 

"Ah,  well,"  Maty  replied,  "for  one  thing,  he  can  carry  five  hundredweight 
o'  grain  upon  his  back,  so  they  say,  and  break  a  man's  neck  as  ye'd  break 
a  barleystraw.  For  another,  he  owns  the  inn,  the  mill  over  yonder  on  the 
creek,  and  half  the  planters  hereabouts."  The  mill,  she  went  on  to  say, 
like  most  mills  in  the  Province,  had  been  built  originally  at  Lord  Baltimore's 
order  and  financed  in  part  with  funds  from  the  provincial  treasury;  hence 
the  government  maintained  an  official  interest  in  its  operation.  Harry  Rus- 
secks was  certainly  aware  of  this  fact,  but  St.  Mary's  City  being  so  far  re- 
moved from  Church  Creek,  and  the  Governor's  Council  having  so  many 
pressing  problems  to  engage  its  attention  and  such  feeble  machinery  of 
law  enforcement,  he  did  not  scruple  to  exploit  his  monopoly  in  every  way. 
What  with  charging  extortionate  fees  for  grinding,  and  regularly  purloin- 
ing a  capful  of  grain  out  of  each  bushel,  he  had  early  become  a  man  of 
some  means;  subsequently  he  had  built  the  inn  and  taken  to  making  loans 
on  acreage  collateral  to  the  tobacco-planters  in  the  area  so  that,  regardless 
of  the  market,  he  made  large  profits  every  year.  If  the  tobacco  price  per 
hogshead  was  good,  his  loans  were  repaid  with  interest,  his  milling  fees 
went  up,  and  his  tavern  was  filled  with  celebrating  planters;  if  the  market 


[  652  ]  THE  SQT-WEED  FACTOR 

i 

fell,  he  increased  his  landholdings  with  forfeited  collateral,  ground  grain 
as  always  for  his  neighbors'  daily  bread,  and  sold  the  planters  rum  to 
drown  their  sorrows  in.  It  was  not  surprising,  then,  that  he  was  presently 
the  wealthiest  man  in  the  area  and  certainly  one  of  the  wealthiest  in 
the  Province:  such  was  the  power  of  his  position  in  Church  Creek  that 
he  had  secured  to  be  his  wife  the  only  truly  noble  lady  for  miles  around, 
by  what  unscrupulous  arrangements  the  townsfolk  could  only  conjecture; 
one  and  all  were  obliged  to  address  him  by  his  false  title  even  as  he  robbed 
them  at  the  mill,  to  leap  clear  whenever  he  brandished  the  sword  which 
he  affected,  even  at  the  grindstones,  as  an  emblem  of  his  rank,  and  in 
general  to  submit  without  protest  to  his  arrogance  and  poltroonery. 

"Sir  Harry  respects  naught  in  the  world  save  patents  o'  nobility,"  she  con- 
cluded, "nor  fears  any  man  in  the  Province— save  a  brace  o'  commissioners 
from  St.  Mary's,  that  some  folk  think  have  been  dispatched  to  inspect  the 
mills  and  ferries." 

"I'Christ,  then!"  McEvoy  exclaimed.  "I  don't  wonder  they  look  to  Billy 
Rumbly  for  relief!  Yd  like  to  see  the  blackguard  tomahawked  myself,  that 
have  yet  to  lay  eyes  upon  him!" 

Drawing  up  before  the  inn  they  saw  upon  its  sign  a  curious  armorial 
device  in  bold  colors:  on  a  field  azure,  between  flanches  sable  with  annulets 
or  (or  roundlets  square-pierced  to  look  like  millstones),  a  fleur-de-lis  gules 
beset  from  alow  and  aloft  by  hard  crabs  armed  natural.  Their  examination 
of  it  was  cut  short  by  a  great  commotion  within  the  place  it  advertised: 
there  was  a  crash  of  fallen  crockery,  a  woman  shrieked,  "Ow!  Owl"  a  man's 
voice  cried,  and  another  roared  out  "I'll  crack  thy  sniveling  skull,  John 
Hanker!  Arrahl  Hold  still,  dammee,  whilst  I  fetch  ye  a  good  one!"  From 
the  door  burst  a  young  colonial,  clutching  his  bare  head  in  both  hands 
and  running  for  his  life.  At  hi$  heels  pumped  a  shaggy  bull  of  a  man,  black- 
haired,  open-shirted,  squint-eyed  and  mottled  with  rage;  in  his  right  hand 
he  waved  a  swotd  (no  gentlemen's  rapier,  but  a  Henry  Morgan  cutlass 
fit  to  quarter  oxen  with)  and  in  his  left  he  clutched  by  the  arm  a  distraught 
young  woman-the  same,  they  soon  heard,  whose  shriek  had  announced 
the  scene.  Had  his  pursuer  not  been  thus  encumbered,  the  young  man 
would  almost  surely  have  lost  more  than  just  his  periwig;  even  with  this 
handicap  the  wild-haired  swordsman— whom  Ebenezer  immediately  under- 
stood to  be  the  miller  Russecks  himself-came  within  an  ace  of  adding 
homicide  to  the  catalogue  of  his  sins. 

"Yafc/  Run,  Hanker!"  he  bellowed,  giving  over  his  pursuit.  "Come  to 
Church  Creek  again,  I  grind  ye  to  hogswill!" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [653] 

"Twas  only  in  sport,  Father!"  cried  the  girl.  "Prithee  don't  go  on  so!" 
Now  that  the  crisis  was  past  she  seemed  more  embarrassed  than  alarmed. 

"  'Sheart!"  McEvoy  murmured  to  Ebenezer.  "There's  a  handsome  lass!" 

The  miller  turned  on  her,  still  brandishing  his  sword.  "I  know  thy  lewd 
sports!  D'ye  think  I  didn't  see  where  he  laid  his  drunken  paw,  and  you 
smiling  him  farther?  All  dogs  pant  after  the  salt  bitch,  eh?  Well,  dammee 
if  I  don't  unsalt  ye,  and  thy  quean  of  a  mother  into  the  bargain!"  With  the 
flat  of  his  cutlass  he  caught  her  a  great  swat  upon  the  rump. 

"Aieef'  she  protested.  "Thou'rt  a  devil  out  o'  Hell!" 

"And  thee  a  goose  out  o'  Winchester!"  Again  he  swung,  and  clapped 
her  smartly  along  the  leg.  Ebenezer  flushed  with  anger,  and  McEvoy  sprang 
to  his  feet  as  though  ready  to  leap  to  the  damsel's  aid  from  his  perch  on 
the  wagon  seat.  But  though  the  girl  protested  loudly  at  her  punishment, 
her  complaints  were  anything  but  tearful  and  abject. 

"Ow/ 1  swear  to  Christ  I'll  murther  ye  in  your  sleep!" 

"Not  till  I've  done  basting  ye,  ye  shan't!" 

The  third  blow  was  aimed  where  the  first  had  struck,  but  by  dint  of 
wrenching  about  and  biting  the  miller's  wrist,  the  girl  caught  it  on  her 
hip  instead  and  broke  free  as  well. 

"Hif  Now  try  and  clout  me,  damn  your  eyes!"  She  did  not  run  off  at 
once,  but  lingered  a  moment  to  taunt  him  from  a  safe  distance.  "Look 
at  him  wave  his  sword,  that  he  bought  to  beat  helpless  women  with!  A 
great  ass  is  what  he  is!" 

"And  thee  a  whore!" 

"And  thee  a  cuckold!  La,  what  a  merry  time  we'll  have,  when  Billy-Boy 
takes  the  lousy  scalp  off  ye!" 

The  miller  roared  and  charged  towards  her,  but  the  girl  scampered  off 
well  ahead  of  him  and  led  him  in  a  circle  around  the  wagon.  When  he 
gave  up  after  a  few  moments,  apparently  resigned  from  past  experience 
to  her  nimbleness,  she  halted  as  well,  bright-eyed  and  panting.  Her  nostrils 
tightened;  her  chin  dimpled  with  scorn.  She  spat  in  his  direction. 

"Buffoon!"  With  a  toss  of  ash-blond  curls  she  turned  her  back  on  him 
and  marched  off  down  the  street  towards  the  mill;  her  father  sashed  his 
weapon  with  a  grunt  and  trudged  after  her»  but  clearly  in  the  manner  of 
a  skulking  bodyguard  rather  than  that  of  an  assailant. 

"That  was  Henrietta  Russecks,"  Mary  chuckled.  "Ain't  she  the  lively  one, 
though?" 

But  the  men  were  appalled  by  the  scene.  It  was  some  moments  before 
Ebenezer  could  find  voice  for  his  indignation,  and  then  he  railed  at 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

length  against  the  miller's  spectacular  ungallantry.  McEvoy,  when  he  found 
his  tongue,  expressed  even  greater  outrage,  and  added  for  good  measure 
a  panegyric  on  the  young  lady. 

"Mother  o'  God,  what  spirit,  Eben!  How  she  gave  the  great  bully  as 
good  as  she  got!  Nor  quailed  for  an  instant!  Nor  shed  a  tear  for  his  bloody 
bastinadoes!  I  here  swear  to  Heav'n  I'll  see  her  free  o'  that  beast,  if  I  must 
murther  him  myself!" 

Ebenezer  showed  some  surprise  at  his  companion's  vehemence,  and  Mc- 
Evoy  blushed. 

"Think  what  ye  will,"  he  grumbled,  "and  be  damned  t'ye!  She  hath 
the  face  o'  Helen  and  the  soul  of  Agamemnon,  hath  that  girl!  Fire  and 
fancy,  what  Ben  Oliver  was  wont  to  call  the  chiefest  female  virtues;  oh, 
'tis  a  rare,  rare  thing!" 

'Te'd  best  not  toy  with  Henrietta,"  Mary  warned  cordially.  4Te  saw 
what  befell  young  Hanker  yonder,  for  no  more'n  a  friendly  pat.  La,  the 
rector  o9  Trinity  Church  himself  couldn't  court  Sir  Hany's  daughter  with- 
out a  patent  out  o'  peerage." 

McEvoy  sniffed  and  furrowed  up  in  thought. 

Mary  laughed.  "Come,  lad,  whate'er  thy  scheme,  'twill  ne'er  avail  ye; 
the  blades  round  about  have  tried  'em  all  and  gained  naught  but  broken 
bones  for  their  trouble!  Belike  ye'll  see  the  lass  anon  when  I  visit  her 
mother,  but  ne'er  out  o'  sight  of  Sir  Harry,  on  your  life." 

They  decided  to  go  directly  to  the  mill,  where,  in  addition  to  announcing 
their  presence  to  Russecks,  Mary  could  consult  the  miller's  wife  for  further 
news  of  Billy  Rumbly  and  his  bride.  On  the  way,  for  McEvoy's  benefit, 
she  chattered  on  about  Henrietta:  the  girl  was  four-and-twenty  and  of  the 
same  lively  temper  as  her  mother,  who  had  been  a  famous  beauty  in 
her  youth  and  could  still  turn  the  head  of  any  young  man  with  an  eye 
for  pulchritude  seasoned  by  experience.  It  was  well  past  time  for  the 
daughter  to  be  wed,  but  so  jealous  was  the  miller  of  the  title  he  had  ap- 
propriated from  his  wife,  he  would  permit  Henrietta  no  husband  from 
among  the  youth  of  the  place;  he  held  out  for  a  suitor  of  noble  birth.  And 
though  with  every  passing  year,  as  may  well  be  supposed,  the  task  of  chap- 
^ronage  grew 'more  difficult— especially  since  Mrs.  Russecks,  so  far  from 
sharing  her  husband's  sympathies,  not  only  allied  herself  with  Henrietta 
in  the  cause  of  love  but  was  actually  prepared  to  join  her  daughter  in  any 
amorous  adventure  they  could  contrive. 

"Yet  for  all  their  ingenuity  and  the  wiles  of  a  score  of  would-be  lovers, 
Sir  Harry  hath  managed  to  keep  his  eye  on  'em  day  and  night.  When  he's 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  655  ] 

at  the  inn,  they  are  his  barmaids,  more  often  than  not;  when  he's  at  the 
mill,  they  are  his  grist-girls.  They  even  sleep  all  in  a  room,  with  Sir  Harry's 
cutlass  hanging  ready  at  the  bedpost.  Only  once  in  all  these  years,  to  my 
knowledge,  have  the  pair  of  'em  got  free  of  him—and  marry,  'twas  a  fort- 
night folk  still  talk  aboutl" 

If  she  was  prepared  to  gossip  more  specifically,  she  had  no  time  to,  for 
when  they  were  still  a  hundred  feet  away  from  the  mill— which  from  the 
look  of  it  served  also  as  the  family  house— Harry  Russecks  stepped  outside 
and  glared  at  them,  arms  akimbo.  At  the  same  time  they  saw  in  an  up- 
stairs window  the  figures  of  two  women  regarding  them  with  interest: 
mother  and  daughter,  evidently,  had  been  apprised  of  their  approach.  Mary 
Mungummory  returned  their  wave,  but  Ebenezer  shivered. 

"And  ye  say  he  fears  these  mill  commissioners  like  the  plague?"  McEvoy 
mused.  Suddenly  he  laid  his  hand  on  Mary's  arm.  "I  say,  thou'rt  a  good 
sort,  Mary;  will  ye  aid  me  in  a  little  lark?  And  you  as  well,  Eben?  I  owe 
ye  my  life  already;  will  ye  stand  me  farther  credit?"  All  he  wished  to  do, 
he  explained  to  his  skeptical  companions,  was  give  the  -boorish  miller  a 
draught  of  his  own  prescription;  if  he  failed,  none  would  be  the  worse  for 
it,  and  if  he  succeeded 

TChrist,  but  let's  put  it  to  the  test!"  he  said  hurriedly,  for  they  were 
almost  within  earshot  of  the  miller.  "State  thy  own  affairs  as  always,  Mary, 
and  say  ye  know  no  more  of  us  than  that  ye  picked  us  up  along  the  road 
after  the  storm.  Nay,  more:  ye  suspect  there  is  more  to  us  than  meets  the 
eye,  inasmuch  as  we've  been  uncommon  secretive  from  the  first,  and  chary 
o'  stating  our  names  and  business." 

"  Twill  ne'er  succeed,  lad/'  Mary  warned,  but  her  eyes  were  twinkling 
already  at  the  prospect  of  a  prank, 

"Prithee,  John/*  Ebenezer  whispered,  "we've  no  time  for  frivolous  ad- 
ventures! Think  of  Bertiand  and  Captain  Cairn "  He  could  protest  no 

more  for  fear  of  being  overheard>  and  McEvoy's  expression  was  resolute. 
The  Irishman's  sudden  interest  in  the  miller's  daughter  struck  him  not  only 
as  a  conventional  impropriety  and  a  breach  of  their  solemn  trust,  but  also 
as  a  sort  of  infidelity  to  Joan  Toast,  despite  the  fact  that  Joan  had  clearly 
abandoned  McEvoy  for  himself,  and  that  he  himself  had  been  unfaithful 
to  her  in  a  sense  by  far  less  honorable  than  the  sexual.  He  held  his  peace 
and  waited  miserably  to  see  what  would  develop. 

"Afternoon,  Sir  Harryl"  Mary  called,  and  clambered  down  from  the 
wagon.  "Just  passing  through,  and  came  to  pay  my  respects  to  Roxie/' 

The  miller  ignored  her.  "Who  are  they?" 


[656]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Them?"  Mary  glanced  back  in  surprise,  as  if  just  noticing  the  presence 
of  her  passengers.  "Ah,  them  ye  mean! .  They're  two  wights  I  found  near 
Limbo  Straits  after  the  storm/'  In  a  voice  just  audible  to  the  poet  she 
added.  "Said  they  had  business  in  Church  Creek,  but  they'd  not  say  what 
Ask  'em  yourself.  Is  Roxie  in?" 

"Aye,  but  ye'll  not  see  her,"  the  miller  declared,  still  glaring  at  the  two 
men.  "Thou'rt  no  fit  company  for  a  lady,  e'en  though  she  be  a  bitch  o' 
perdition.  Get  on  with  ye!" 

"Just  as  ye  say/'  She  waited  as  McEvoy  climbed  down,  followed  by 
Ebenezer.  "If  ye  have  any  business  farther  north,"  she  told  them  with  a 
wink,  "  'twould  be  no  chore  for  me  to  ferry  ye.  I'll  be  yonder  by  the  inn 
till  tomorrow  or  next  day." 

"Most  charitable  of  ye,  madame,"  said  McEvoy  with  a  short  bow.  "And 
I  thank  ye  for  service  both  to  ourselves  and  to  His  Majesty.  Believe  me, 
'twill  not  be  long  till  we  reward  ye  more  tangibly/' 

Ebenezer  winced  at  the  imposture. 

"Who  are  ye?"  Russecks  demanded  impatiently.  "And  what's  your  busi- 
ness in  Church  Creek?" 

McEvoy  turned,  and  so  far  from  being  intimidated,  he  surveyed  the 
miller  from  head  to  toe  with  exaggerated  suspicion.  Mary,  her  face  aglow, 
made  no  move  to  leave  the  scene. 

"Speak  up,  dajnmee!" 

Ebenezer  saw  the  great  black  beard  commence  to  twitch  in  anger  and 
was  tempted  to  end  the  hoax  before  it  was  irrevocably  launched,  but  before 
he  could  muster  his  courage  McEvoy  spoke. 

"Did  I  hear  this  lady  address  you  as  Sir  Harry?" 

"Ye  did,  save  ye  be  deef  as  well  as  cock-proud." 

McEvqy  looked  accusingly  at  Mary.  "Is't  some  strange  humor  of  thine, 
madame,  or  a  prank  betwixt  the  twain  o'  ye,  to  pretend  this  glowering 
oaf  is  Sir  Harry  Russecks?" 

From  above,  where  the  ladies  had  opened  the  casement  to  listen,  came 
a  gasp  and  a  titter;  even  staunch  Mary  was  taken  aback  by  the  Irishman's 
daring. 

"How?"  shouted  the  miller.  "Doth  he  say  I'm  not  Sir  Harry?"  His  hand 
flew  to  the  hilt  of  his  cutlass.  "I'll  skewer  the  saucy  pup!" 

"Nay,  Ben,  don't  draw!"  McEvoy  cried  to  Ebenezer,  who  trembled 
nearby.  "What,  ye  left  your  short-sword  in  the  wagon?"  He  threw  back 
his  head  and  laughed;  everyone,  the  miller  and  his  women  included,  stood 
dumfounded. 

"'Tis  well  for  thee,  little  miller,"  McEvoy  said  grimly,  and  went  so 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [657] 

far  as  to  tweak  the  fellow's  beard.  "My  friend  Sir  Benjamin  had  pricked 
thy  gizzard  in  a  trice,  as  he  hath  pricked  two  hundred  like  ye  in  the  service 
of  His  Majesty.  Now  take  us  to  Sir  Harry,,  and  no  more  impertinence,  else 
I'll  bid  him  flog  the  flour  out  o'  thy  hide/7 

"If  ye  please,  sir/*  Mary  broke  in,  plainly  relishing  the  miller's  discom- 
fiture: "This  is  Sir  Harry  Russecks,  on  my  life,  sir,  flour  or  no— yonder's 
his  wife  and  daughter,  sir,  that  will  swear  to't." 

The  ladies  at  the  window  merrily  confirmed  the  fact,  but  McEvoy 
feigned  some  lingering  doubt. 

"If  thou'rt  Sir  Harry  Russecks,  how  is't  thou'rt  got  up  as  a  clownish  laborer 
in  the  mill?" 

"What's  that  ye  say?  Why,  don't  ye  know,  sirs "  He  appealed  to 

Mary  for  aid. 

"Why,  'tis  Sir  Harry's  little  whim,  sir,"  Mary  declared.  "'Tis  the  mill 
first  earned  his  bread,  ere  he  married  Mrs.  Russecks,  and  he's  not  one 
to  forget  his  humble  birth,  is  good  Sir  Harry." 

"Aye,  aye,  that's  it;  she  hath  hit  the  mark  fair."  For  all  his  relief  at  the 
explanation,  Russecks  appeared  not  entirely  happy  with  the  reference  to 
his  humble  birth.  "Did  ye— did  I  hear  ye  say  thou'rt  in  the  King's  employ, 
sirs?"  He  glanced  with  ill-disguised  interest  at  the  suddenly-knighted  poet. 

"In  a  manner  o'  speaking,  aye,"  McEvoy  declared.  "But  I'd  as  well  tell 
ye  plainly  at  the  outset,  our  commission  went  down  with  crew  and  pin- 
nace in  the  storm,  and  till  a  new  one  comes  from  St  Mary's  ye  have  the 
right  to  bar  us  from  the  premises  an  it  please  ye." 

The  miller's  eyes  widened,  "Thou'rt  Nicholson's  commissioners?" 

McEvoy  refused  either  to  affirm  or  deny  the  identification,  declaring 
that  until  his  authority  was  legal  he  thought  the  wisest  course  would  be 
to  speak  no  further  of  it. 

"In  any  case/'  he  said  in  a  tone  less  stern,  "  'tis  not  alone  on  Nicholson's 
business  I  travel.  My  name's  McEvoy— Trade  and  Plantations  when  I'm 
home  in  London— Sir  Jonathan  at  Whitehall  is  my  father." 

"Ye  don't  tell  me!"  marveled  the  miller,  not  yet  entirely  free  of  suspicion. 
"I  can't  say  I  have  the  pleasure  o'  knowing  a  Sir  Jonathan  McEvoy  at 
Whitehall." 

"To  our  discredit,  I'm  sure/'  McEvoy  made  a  slight  mocking  bow.  "But 
I  shan't  lose  hope  that  Mrs.  Russecks  may  redeem  us  by  acquaintance  with 
the  name/' 

This  thrust  evoked  another  response  from  the  upstairs  window;  when 
McEvoy  raised  his  eyes  to  the  ladies,  Mrs.  Russecks  (who  Ebenezer  saw 


[  gc8  ]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

was  indeed  the  full-blown  beauty  Mary  claimed  her  to  be)  nodded  archly, 
and  smiling  Henrietta  made  an  eager  curtsy. 

McEvoy  gestured  towards  Ebenezer.  "This  formidable  fellow  is  my 
friend  Sir  Benjamin  Oliver,  that  thanks  to  his  wondrous  eye  and  stout  right 
arm  is  belike  the  youngest  member  o'  the  peerage.  Ladies,  I  give  ye  Sir 
Benjamin:  a  lion  on  the  battlefield  and  a  lambkin  in  the  drawing-room!" 

Ebenezer  blushed  both  at  the  imposture  and  the  characterization,  but 
bowed  automatically  to  the  ladies. 

"The  fact  is,"  McEvoy  went  on,  "Sir  Benjamin's  father  is  visiting  the 
plantations  on  business  of  his  own,  and  I'm  showing  my  bashful  friend 
here  the  countryside.  Needless  to  say,  he  hath  heard  of  Mrs.  Russecks's 
family  in  England/' 

"Ye  do  not  say!"  The  miller  wiped  his  nose  proudly  with  a  forefinger, 
all  his  skepticism  vanished.  "Heard  o'  Mrs.  Russecks's  family  in  England! 
Come  in,  won't  ye,  gentlemen?  Come  in!  Oh  Roxie,  did  ye  hear  what  the 
gentleman  said?  Our  family's  the  talk  o'  the  English  peerage!  Come  down 
here!" 

Mrs.  Russecks  lost  no  time  in  greeting  the  visitors  at  the  door. 

"This  here's  my  wife  Roxanne,"  the  miller  said  proudly.  "She's  the 
noblest  damned  lady  on  the  Eastern  Shore." 

"Enchant^"  McEvoy  said,  and  to  Ebenezer's  horror,  embraced  the 
woman  in  a  loverlike  fashion  and  kissed  her  ardently. 

"Out  upon't!"  cried  the  miller,  drawing  his  sword.  "I  say,  dammee, 
give  o'er!  What  in  thunder  d'ye  do  there,  'pon  my  soul?" 

McEvoy  released  his  bewildered  partner,  feigning  annoyance  and  sur- 
prise. "Whate'er  is  thy  husband  alarmed  at,  Madame?  Can  it  be  he's  igno- 
rant of  the  Whitehall  Salute?  Have  ye  not  schooled  him  in  the  customs  o' 
the  court?" 

Mrs.  Russecks,  still  taken  aback  by  the  sudden  embrace,  managed  to  con- 
fess the  possibility  that  she  herself  might  be  out  of  touch  with  the  very 
latest  fashions  in  behavior  at  Whitehall. 

"I'll  have  his  lewd  head!"  the  miller  threatened,  raising  the  sword. 

"My  dear  friend,"  McEvoy  said,  serene  and  patronizing,  "at  court,  'tis 
the  practice  for  every  proper  gentleman  to  embrace  a  lady  thus  on  first 
meeting  her;  only  a  bumpkin  or  a  cad  would  insult  her  with  a  sniveling 
little  bow."  He  went  on  to  declare,  before  Russecks  could  object,  that  while 
he  quite  appreciated  the  difficulty  provincial  gentlemen  must  have  in 
keeping  up  with  London  society,  he  considered  it  therefore  of  the  first 
importance  that  they  maintain  an  open  mind  and  a  humble  willingness 
to  be  instructed, 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [659] 

"Now  put  away  your  sword,  that  no  gentleman  should  raise  without 
cause,  and  be  so  kind  as  to  present  us  to  your  daughter." 

Russecks  hesitated,  clearly  torn  between  his  desire  to  keep  up  with  the 
latest  fashions  of  the  court  and  his  reluctance  to  deliver  Henrietta  into 
the  visitors'  embraces.  But  his  wife  took  the  matter  out  of  his  hands. 

"Henrietta,  bestir  thyself!"  she  scolded  through  the  doorway.  ''The  gentle- 
men will  think  thou'rt  uncivil!" 

The  girl  appeared  at  once  from  behind  the  jamb,  curtsied  to  both  men, 
and  prettily  presented  herself  to  McEvoy  for  her  "Whitehall  Salute,"  which 
the  Irishman  executed  with  even  more  £lan  than  before.  At  the  same  time 
Mrs.  Russecks  went  up  to  Ebenezer  and  said,  "We're  most  delighted  to 
have  the  privilege,  Sir  Benjamin,"  so  that  he  was  obliged  to  do  the  same 
whether  he  would  or  no,  and  again  with  the  eager-eyed,  ash-blond  daughter 
who  came  after,  still  flushed  from  McEvoy's  kiss,  while  the  miller  looked 
on  in  helpless  consternation. 

Mary  Mungummory  beamed.  'Til  just  be  yonder  at  the  inn  if  there's 
aught  ye  should  want  o'  me,"  she  called. 

"Then  ye  may  stable  your  horse  right  now  and  pay  me  her  day's  keep  -in 
advance,"  Russecks  said  crossly, 

Mary  did  as  she  was  told  and  left,  but  not  before  Ebenezer  observed 
a  significant  exchange  of  glances  between  her  and  Mrs.  Russecks.  At  a 
moment  when  her  husband  was  boasting  to  McEvoy  that  he  collected  a 
day's  stabling  chargS  on  every  horse  brought  into  Church  Creek  for  more 
than  half  a  day,  Mrs.  Russecks  had  looked  at  Mary  as  if  to  ask,  "Can  it 
be  that  this  brash  young  man  has  actually  deceived  my  husband?"  And 
further,  "Do  I  dare  believe  his  intentions  are  what  they  seem?"  Mary's 
response  had  been  a  wink  so  large  and  lecherous  as  to  set  the  poet  tingling 
with  apprehension* 


i?:    HIS  MAJESTY'S  PROVINCIAL  WIND- AND 
WATER-MILL  COMMISSIONERS,  WITH  SEPARATE  ENDS 
IN  VIEW,  HAVE  RECOURSE  ON  SEPARATE  OCCASIONS 
TO  ALLEGORY 


MCEVOY  NOW  EXPRESSED  A  DESIRE  TO  BE   SHOWN  THE   OPERATION   OF 

the  mill,  explaining  that  though  Heaven  knew  he  himself  had  seen  enough 


[  660  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

of  them  in  the  past  several  weeks,  his  friend  Sir  Benjamin,  who  had  been 
raised  in  London,  might  find  the  device  amusing. 

'  "Aye,  indeed  so,  young  sirs,"  Russecks  agreed.  "  Twill  be  a  pleasure  to 
show  ye!  Roxanne,  you  and  Henrietta  begone,  now,  whilst  I  take  the  gen- 
tlemen through  my  mill. 

"Oh  prithee,  Father,"  Henrietta  protested,  "  Twill  be  a  lark  for  us  to 
go  with  ye!  We're  not  afraid  to  climb  ladders  with  the  gentlemen,  are  we, 
Mother?" 

"Nay,  dammee!"  cried  the  miller.  "Get  ye  gone,  ere  I  raise  a  welt  athwart 
thy " 

"Not  another  word/'  McEvoy  said  firmly.  "Tis  the  mark  of  a  well-born 
lady  to  crave  a  bit  of  adventure  now  and  again,  don't  ye  think?  My  arm, 
Miss  Henrietta,  an  it  please  ye."  The  girl  took  his  arm  at  once,  and  Mrs. 
Russecks  Ebenezer's,  and  any  further  expostulations  from  the  miller  Mc- 
Evoy prevented  by  a  series  of  pointed  questions  about  the  establishment, 

"How  is't  a  gentleman  stoops  to  such  work  as  milling?"  he  wanted  to 
know  as  they  entered  the  building. 

"Ah,  well,  sir "  Russecks  laughed  uncomfortably.  "  Tis  as  Mary  said 

—Miss  Mungummory  yonder,  what  I  mean— ye  might  say  I  run  it  purely 
for  the  sport  oft,  don't  ye  know.  Tis  beneath  my  station,  I  grant  ye,  but 
a  man  wants  something  to  fill  his  time,  I  always  say." 

"Hm." 

Walking  behind  them,  Ebenezer  saw  the  Irishman  reach  boldly  around 
Henrietta's  back  with  the  arm  opposite  Russecks  and  give  the  girl  a  sportive 
poke  in  the  ribs.  He  blanched,  but  Mrs.  Russecks,  who  saw  the  movement  as 
plainly  as  had  he,  only  squeezed  his  arm  and  smiled.  As  for  Henrietta, 
she  showed  surprise  but  not  a  trace  of  indignation  at  the  cavalier  advance; 
when  her  escort  repeated  it— simultaneously  asking  the  miller  why,  if  his 
work  was  in  the  nature  of  an  avocation,  he  charged  such  wondrously  profit- 
able fees  for  doing  it— she  was  hard  put  to  stifle  her  mirth.  She  caught  his 
hand;  he  promptly  and  unabashedly  scratched  her  palm,  and  Mrs.  Russecks, 
instead  of  unleashing  maternal  wrath  upon  the  seducer  as  the  poet  ex- 
pected, sighed  and  dug  her  nails  into  the  flexor  of  his  arm. 

"Stay,  just  a  moment,"  McEvoy  said,  cutting  into  the  millers  explana- 
tion that  what  revenue  came  from  the  mill  was  turned  to  community 
improvements  such  as  his  inn  and  the  tobacco  storehouse  he  was  construct- 
ing farther  down  the  creek.  "I've  an  urgent  private  question,  if  ye  please," 
With  a  mischievous  expression  he  whispered  loudly  into  Russecks's  ear 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  66l  ] 

that  he  sorely  needed  to  know  whether  the  improvements  of  the  place 
included  a  jakes,  and  if  so,  where  a  man  might  find  it  in  a  hurry. 

"Why,  marry,  out  in  the  back,  sir,"  the  astonished  miller  answered,  "or 
—or  thou'rt  free  to  piss  in  the  millrace,  e'en  as  I  do.  What  I  mean " 

"Enough:  ye  quite  overwhelm  me  with  hospitality.  Ill  use  your  millrace 
and  fore'er  be  in  your  debt.  Adieu,  all;  on  with  the  tour!  I'll  overtake  ye 
presently." 

Thus  abruptly  he  left  them,  followed  by  the  ladies'  marveling  eyes;  when 
he  returned  a  few  minutes  later  he  clapped  Russecks  on  the  back,  called 
him  a  poet  and  philosopher  for  having  hit  on  that  wondrous  virtue  in  a 
millrace,  and  with  the  other  hand  treated  Henrietta  to  a  surreptitious  carni- 
val of  tweaks,  pats,  pokes,  and  pinches,  so  that  she  seemed  ever  on  the 
verge  of  swooning  from  mirth,  titillation,  and  the  effort  it  required  to  be- 
tray nothing  to  her  father. 

"Isn't  he  the  bold  one?"  Mrs.  Russecks  whispered  to  Ebenezer.  The 
poet  was  mortified  to  observe  the  lady's  respiration  quicken  with  vicarious 
excitement  and  guessed  she  envied  her  daughter's  having  drawn  the  more 
adventurous  partner.  But  for  all  his  desire  to  question  Mrs,  Russecks  closely 
on  the  matter  of  poor  Miss  Bromly,  he  had  no  taste  at  all  for  adulterous 
flirtation,  and  would  have  abjured  it  on  temperamental  grounds  even  had 
the  circumstances  been  less  perilous  and  less  remote  from  their  pressing 
business  with  Billy  Rumbly.  How  had  he  got  into  it,  and  however  would 
it  end?  His  body  stiffened,  and  when  Mrs.  Russecks,  aping  Henrietta's  be- 
havior with  McEvoy,  slipped  a  playful  hand  into  his  breeches  pocket  as 
they  moved  single  file  along  a  catwalk  near  the  grain  hopper,  his  blood 
ran  cold.  He  was  immensely  relieved  when  the  tour  of  the  mill  was  done, 
for  so  blatant  by  that  time  were  McEvoy's  liberties  with  Henrietta,  the 
miller  must  surely  have  caught  sight  of  them  in  another  minute.  They 
came  out  at  the  rear  of  the  mill,  facing  the  stable, 

"There  now,  sirs,"  Harry  Russecks  said,  "ye'll  aSree  ^here's  not  a  better- 
kept  mill  in  the  Province,  will  ye  not,  nor  a  better  run?" 

"As  to  the  first,  ye  may  not  be  far  wide  o'  the  mark,"  McEvoy  allowed, 
"As  to  the  second— but  stay,  I  vowed  I'd  have  none  o'  business  till  my 
papers  reach  me.  I  will  say,  'twas  fine  sport  to  poke  about  in  there;  I  have 
toured  many  a  Maryland  mill,  but  none  so  pleasurably." 

The  miller  spat  proudly.  "D'ye  hear  that,  Roxie?  Ha'n't  I  always  held 
'twas  no  disgrace  for  a  gentleman  to  know  his  way  around  a  mill?" 

McEvoy  went  on,  turning  his  eyes  brazenly  to  Henrietta.  "I  was  taken 


[662]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

in  particular  by  a  handsome  hopper  I  spied  whilst  we  were  climbing  to 
the  loft.  From  what  I  could  see,  'twas  scarce  broken  in." 

Ebenezer's  heart  sank,  and  even  Henrietta  blushed  at  the  figure,  but 
the  millei  seemed  not  to  grasp  it,  for  he  cried,  "Now  there's  a  sharp-eyed 
fellow,  'pon  my  word!  I  made  that  hopper  myself,  sir,  not  long  since,  and 
I'm  passing  proud  oft.  It's  not  been  used  but  once  so  far,  but  'twill  give 
good  service  for  many  a  year.  Tis  a  pity  ye  didn't  just  run  a  hand  in,  to 
get  the  beauty  of  the  lap-joints/' 

"A  pity  in  sooth,"  McEvoy  agreed,  and  added,  to  the  women's  delight, 
*Te  may  bank  on't  I'll  not  miss  the  chance  again/' 

Emboldened  by  the  possibilities  of  the  metaphor,  Henrietta  insisted  that 
no  mere  stroke  of  the  hand  could  disclose  the  real  excellence  of  the 
device,  which  lay  in  the  way  it  performed  its  intended  function;  only  by 
running  his  own  grist  through  would  Mr.  McEvoy  ever  truly  appreciate 
it.  The  Irishman  joyfully  replied  that  nothing  would  please  him  more,  al- 
though he'd  heard  complaints  from  local  planters  about  the  fee, 

"They're  liars,  all!"  cried  Russecks,  who  showed  great  alarm  whenever 
his  guest  brought  up  the  matter  of  public  relations.  "Let  'em  try  to  find 
the  likes  o'  that  machinery  in  the  county  ere  they  grouse  and  tattle! 
That  stout  little  hopper's  not  the  only  marvel  o'  the  place/' 

Here  Mrs.  Russecks  joined  the  conversation  in  support  of  her  husband. 
"Haply  you  were  too  distracted  to  remark  then,  Mr.  McEvoy,  but  the  mill- 
stones themselves  are  most  unusual/' 

"Aye,  that's  a  fact,  sir,"  Russecks  said  eagerly.  "Ye  might  have  seen  'em 
plainly  from  the  ladderway.  "They've  been  in  daily  use  for  near  two-score 
years,  have  those  millstones,  and  they're  better  every  year/' 

Mrs.  Russecks  declared  that  Sir  Benjamin  had  been  better  situated  than 
Mr.  McEvoy  to  view  these  marvels,  and  added  that  their  ever-increasing 
excellence  only  demonstrated  the  truth  of  an  axiom  in  the  trade:  The 
older  the  millstones,  the  finer  the  grind. 

"To  be  sure,"  Henrietta  put  in  tartly,  "it  wants  an  uncommon  big  shaft 
to  fit  such  stones;  the  one  father's  using  is  nigh  worn  out/' 

Ebenezer  set  his  teeth.  He  looked  about  for  a  means  of  ending  the 
double'entendref  and  noticed  that  the  stall  where  Mary  had  put  Aphrodite 
was  empty. 

"I  say,  Miss  Mungummory's  mare  is  gone;  can  it  be  she  drove  on 
without  us?'' 

"Nay,  she'd  never  leave  so  soon/'  Mrs.  Russecks  said,  "We'd  not  e'en 
had  time  to  talk  yet." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [663] 

The  miller  declared  there  was  nothing  to  be  concerned  about,  but  Mc- 
Evoy  insisted  on  seeking  out  Mary  at  the  inn  to  make  certain  the  mare  had 
not  strayed.  Very  soon  he  returned  with  Mary  in  tow,  making  a  great  show 
of  anger  and  alarm. 

"Really,  Sir  Harry!"  he  cried.  "Is't  your  practice  to  let  folks'  horses  wander 
loose,  after  ye've  extorted  your  gouging  fee  from  'em?" 

For  a  moment  the  miller  forgot  his  role:  his  face  darkened,  and  his 
hand  went  to  his  sword.  "Gently  there,  young  pup,  or  I'll  soon " 

"Where  is  that  horse,  sir?"  McEvoy  pressed.  "Sir  Benjamin  and  I  owe 
this  lady  our  lives  for  bringing  us  out  o'  the  marsh  in  her  wagon,  as  I've 
already  apprised  Governor  Nicholson.  D'ye  think  we'll  stand  by  and  see 
her  lose  her  mare  from  your  negligence?" 

"Ah,  my  poor  sweet  Aphrodite!"  Mary  lamented. 

44My  negligence!"  the  miller  shouted. 

"Aye,  thine,  as  proprietor  of  the  stables.  Draw  your  sword,  fellow,  if 
ye  dare!  Twill  be  no  cowering  planter  ye  face,  but  one  o'  King  William's 
deadliest." 

"Nay,  go  to,  gentlemen,  go  to!"  the  miller  pleaded,  no  longer  belligerent. 
"D'ye  think  I  turned  the  mare  loose  a-purpose?  Ye  were  in  plain  sight 
o'  me  all  the  while!" 

Ebenezer  suddenly  understood  what  had  happened,  and  his  heart  sank. 

"I  made  no  such  charge,"  McEvoy  said,  "Nonetheless,  thou'rt  answerable 
for  the  horse*  A  true  gentleman  would  ne'er  permit  the  thing  to  happen, 
much  less  weasel  out  oft.  Am  I  right,  Mrs.  Russecks?" 

Though  she  seemed  not  quite  to  understand  the  Irishman's  motives,  Mrs. 
Russecks  agreed  that  caring  for  the  property  of  his  guests  is  a  first  concern 
of  the  proper  gentleman.  For  a  moment  Russecks  seemed  about  to  strike 
her—  Ebenezer  guessed  that  in  normal  circumstances  she'd  never  have  dared 
such  an  observation— but  he  arrested  the  impulse. 

"Please,  gentlemen,  please!  'Twas  no  fault  o'  mine  the  jade  wandered 
off " 

"La!"  Maiy  appealed  to  Providence.  "He  calls  Aphrodite  a  jade!" 

"Dammet,  sirs,  nobody's  more  a  gentleman  than  I  ami  I'm  the  biggest 
bloody  gentleman  in  Church  Creek!" 

'Then  find  Aphrodite,"  McEvoy  snapped,  "or  ye'll  answer  to  the  Gover- 
nor himself." 

"Find  her!  Many,  lad,  that  nag  could  be  halfway  to  Cambridge  by  now!" 

w  Tis  a  consideration  as  would  ne'er  deter  your  honest  gentleman,  I  be- 
lieve." 


[664]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Please,  sir!"  Mrs.  Russecks,  though  it  was  not  clear  whether  she  saw 
the  drift  of  things,  took  McEvoy's  arm  in  supplication.  "Don't  be  hard 
on  my  husband  in  St.  Mary's!  Do  but  take  a  pot  of  tea  with  us,  you  and 
Sir  Benjamin,  and  I'm  sure  he'll  have  the  mare  back  ere  sunset." 

"Ere  sunset!"  Russecks  cried.  "I've  not  said  I'd  go  chasing  after  the 

beast  to  begin  with!  What  I  mean God's  blood,  then,  I'll  find  the 

cursed  animal!  But  I  must  have  help." 

"I'll  search  with  ye,"  Mary  volunteered  at  once.  "I  know  Aphrodite's 
ways  and  I'll  ne'er  rest  easy  till  we  track  her  down.  You,  sirs,"  Mary  said 
to  McEvoy  aijd  Ebenezer,  "go  have  your  tea,  nor  take  any  measures  against 
Sir  Harry  till  we  return.  Roxie  and  Henrietta  will  do  their  best  to  entertain 
ye." 

Now  the  miller  was  by  no  means  pleased  by  this  arrangement,  but  though 
his  face  plainly  registered  reluctance,  he  permitted  Mary  to  lead  him  off 
towards  a  woods  behind  the  stable.  Ebenezer  watched  them  go  with  faint- 
ing spirits;  he  was  not  certain  how  much  the  women  understood  of  Mc- 
Evoy's  means,  but  their  exultant  faces  left  no  doubt  that  they  guessed  and 
welcomed  his  end. 

"Methinks  I'll  help  them  search,"  he  ventured. 

McEvoy  laughed.  "Nay,  ladies,  tell  me  truly:  is  Sir  Benjamin  England's 
greatest  coward  or  her  greatest  tease?  I  know  for  a  fact  he  hath  fathered 
a  regiment  o'  bastards,  but  to  hear  the  scoundrel  ye'd  take  him  for  a  virgin." 

"Stay,  John;  'tis  time  to  end  disguises." 

"Time  enough,"  McEvoy  agreed  quickly,  but  instead  of  revealing  their 
true  identities  and  stations,  he  confessed  that  he  himself  had  set  Miss  Mun- 
gummory's  mare  a-wandering,  what  time  he'd  feigned  a  visit  to  the  mill- 
race;  he'd  already  freely  said  as  much  to  Mary,  who,  by  no  means  disturbed 
at  the  news,  had  told  him  Aphrodite  would  go  at  once  to  a  certain  farm 
not  far  away,  where  she'd  been  often  stabled,  and  had  offered  to  lead 
Harry  Russecks  on  a  two-hour  wild-goose  chase  before  they  found  her, 

"There's  a  queen  among  women,"  Mrs.  Russecks  declared  unblushingly. 
"So,  then,  gentlemen:  let  us  go  in  to  our  tea,  since  my  husband  hath  such 
nice  feeling  for  responsibility."  She  took  Ebenezer's  arm;  McEvoy  had 
already  encircled  Henrietta's  waist  and  drawn  her  to  his  side, 

"Really,  Mrs.  Russecks,"  the  poet  said  desperately,  "there  is  a  certain 
pressing  business  I  wish  to  discuss  with  you " 

"There,  now,  Mr.  McEvoy!"  the  miller's  wife  teased.  "Your  friend  is  as 
importunate  as  yourself!  Marry,  in  my  youth  men  were  more  subtle— for 
better  or  worse." 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  665  ] 

"Nay,  you  refuse  to  understand!"  Ebenezer  protested.  "I'm  not  what 
you  think  I  am  at  all!" 

"So  I'm  beginning  to  grasp,  you  young  rascal!" 

"Pray,  hear  me " 

"Peace,  Sir  Benjamin,"  McEvoy  laughed,  but  Ebenezer  saw  alarm  in 
his  eyes.  "Thou'rt  embarrassing  Henrietta  with  your  forwardness.  Out  on't, 
Madame  Russecks,  methinks  we'd  best  forego  the  tea,  to  spare  your  lovely 
daughter  farther  blushes;  by'r  leave,  I'll  ask  her  to  take  me  once  again 
through  the  mill,  to  see  more  closely  what  I  only  glimpsed  before." 

To  this  bald  proposition  Mrs.  Russecks  only  replied,  "I'm  not  disposed 
to  keep  a  man  from  His  Majesty's  business,  sir;  yet  if  on  the  grounds  of 
your  commission  you  decide  to  try  the  mill  machinery  as  well  as  inspect  it, 
I  ask  you  to  bear  in  mind  two  things  .  .  /' 

"Anything,  madame:  'tis  thine  to  command." 

"First,  then,  albeit  we  have  your  statement  for't  that  you've  inspected 
many  a  mill  before,  you  must  remember  that  this  one  is  unaccustomed  to 
inspection.  Tis  very  dear  to  me,  e'en  precious,  sir;  for  all  my  husband 
claims  it  as  his  own,  'tis  not  o'  his  making  at  all,  but  came  to  him  with 
my  dowry,  as't  were.  Moreover,  we've  our  reputation  to  think  of,  and  albeit 
'tis  a  perfectly  harmless  thing  thou'rt  commissioned  to,  if  'twere  generally 
known  what  thou'rt  about,  certain  ill-minded  gossips  would  make  a  scandal 
oft*  In  sum,  then,  inspect  and  try  what  ye  will,  Mr.  McEvoy,  but  be  gentle 
and  discreet  as  becomes  an  officer  of  the  King," 

McEvoy  bowed,  "I  pledge  my  life  on't,  lady;  and  may  I  say  that  of  all 
the  beautiful  women  of  my  acquaintance,  ye  take  the  prize  for  gentleness 
wedded  to  knowledge  o*  the  great  real  world." 

"And  you,  Henrietta/'  Mrs,  Russecks  said  more  sternly.  "Bear  in  mind 
that  the  mill  is  a  perilous  place  for  novices." 

"Methinks  I  know  my  way  around  it  well  enough,  Mother!" 

"Very  well,  but  mind  your  step  and  stay  alert  for  trouble*" 

With  this  advice  the  couple  left,  and  Mrs.  Russecks  turned  to  Ebenezer 
with  a  strange,  proud  smile, 

"Fetch  me  into  the  house,  Sir  Benjamin,  and  we'll  attend  to  the  pressing 
business  that  so  distracts  you/' 

Ebenezer  sighed;  it  was  chilly  outside,  and  he  was  blind  neither  to  Mrs. 
Russecks's  beauty  nor  to  the  excitement  of  her  flattering  invitation.  Never- 
theless as  soon  as  they  were  seated  in  her  parlor  he  declared  that  he 
was  not  Sir  Benjamin  Oliver  nor  any  other  knight,  and  that  neither  he 
nor  his  companion  were  traveling  in  any  official  capacity. 


[  666  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"As  for  my  actual  identity,  I  am  ashamed  oft,  but  Til  tell  it  readily " 

"Indeed  you  shan't!"  Mrs.  Russecks  commanded,  with  some  heat.  "Me- 
thinks  thou'rt  younger  in  the  ways  of  the  world  than  becomes  thy  years! 
Do  you  take  me  for  whore,  sir,  that  swives  all  comers  in  the  stews?" 

"Prithee,  nay,  ma'am!" 

"You've  seen  what  a  gross,  unmannered  bully  is  my  husband,"  she  went 
on  sharply.  "Once  in  my  youth  I  grew  to  despise  the  race  of  men,  and  to 
loathe  in  myself  those  things  that  aroused  their  lust  and  mine:  'twas  in 
contempt  of  life  I  married  Harry  Russecks,  so  that  every  time  he  forced 
me  like  a  slavering  brute  of  the  woods,  he'd  strengthen  twice  over  my 
opinion  of  his  sex." 

"Mercy,  ma'am!  I  scarce  know  what  to  think!  Many's  the  time  I've  pitied 
woman's  lot,  and  reviled  men's  coarseness;  yet  a  man  is  nine  parts  nature's 
slave  in  such  matters,  methinks,  and  in  any  case  I  assure  you  not  all  men 
are  so  coarse  as  your  husband."  He  stopped,  covered  with  confusion  by 
the  unintended  insult.  "What  I  mean  to  say,  ma'am " 

"No  matter."  Mrs.  Russecks's  face  softened;  she  smiled  sweetly  and  laid 
her  hand  upon  Ebenezer's.  "What  you  just  told  me,  I  knew  in  my  heart 
all  along,  and  'twas  not  long  ere  I  saw  the  great  folly  of  my  marriage. 
Yet  I  was  and  still  am  viptim  of  another  folly,  that  I  got  like  a  family  illness 
from  my  father:  I  was  too  proud  to  renounce  a  grand  course  once  I'd  em- 
barked on't,  e'en  though  I  saw  'twould  lead  to  naught  but  pain  and  re- 
vulsion. In  lieu  of  admitting  my  blunder  and  leaving  the  Province,  I  re- 
solved to  make  the  best  oft;  I  vowed  I'd  lose  no  opportunity  to  redeem 
myself  for  scorning  good  men  along  with  bad.  That,  sir,  explains  your  pres- 
ence here,  and  what  you  no  doubt  took  to  be  immodest  encouragement 
on  our  part— I  feel  more  pity  for  Henrietta  than  for  myself,  inasmuch  as 
'twas  none  of  her  choice  to  live  with  such  a  jealous  and  vigilant  despot. 
Yet  albeit  I  freely  own  we've  behaved  like  tarts,  sir,  I  beg  you  remember 
that  we're  not:  'twas  to  a  knight  I  opened  my  door,  and  e'en  good 
Guinevere  played  harlot  for  a  knight!  To  tell  me  now  thou'rt  only  Ben, 
the  factor's  son,  or  Slim  Bill  Bones,  the  sailor— 'twere  les$  than  delicate, 
Sir  Benjamin,  were  it  not?" 

While  speaking  she  played  distractedly  with  Ebenezer's  hand,  stroking 
down  each  bony  finger-top  with  her  index  nail;  at  the  end  she  raised  her 
excellent  brown  eyes,  furrowed  her  brows  in  whimsical  appeal,  and  smiled 
a  little  crooked  smile  as  if  to  say,  "My  honor  is  quite  in  your  hands  now, 
sir.  Come  what  may,  none  can  deny  I've  stated  my  case."  Emotions 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [667] 

strong  and  various  buffeted  Ebenezer.  His  cheeks  burned;  his  heart  beat 
fast;  his  nose  and  eyebrows  jerked  and  twitched. 

"Dear  lady "  It  was  time  to  make  a  move;  he  must  embrace  her  at 

once,  or  throw  himself  upon  his  knees  to  protest  his  ardor— but  though 
the  feelings  so  at  odds  within  his  breast  were  strangely  different  from  those 
he'd  known  in  other  passionate  impasses,  he  was  unable  to  bring  himself 
to  do  what  the  moment  called  for.  "I  beg  you,  madam:  take  no  offense " 

Mrs.  Russecks  drew  back  as  if  he  had  slapped  her.  Bewilderment  was 
followed  at  once  in  her  expression  by  disbelief,  which  gave  way  in  its  turn 
to  cold  wrath. 

"Prithee,  don't  misunderstand " 

"  Tis  not  likely  I  shall,  d'ye  think?"  she  said  furiously.  "Or  will  you 
tell  me  thou'rt  a  Christian  saint  disguised,  that  hath  such  a  nice  regard 
for  my  husband's  honor!" 

"He  is  a  boor,"  Ebenezer  assured  her.  "What  horns  he  wears,  he  hath 
more  than  earned  by's  callous " 

"Then  the  truth  is  plain,"  she  snapped.  "Your  friend  stole  the  filly  and 
left  you  to  ride  the  foundered  jade!" 

"Nay,  madam,  b'm'faith!  I've  no  wish  to  change  places  with  McEvoy, 
believe  me!" 

"Hear  the  wretch!  He  finds  the  pair  of  us  sour  to's  taste,  nor  scruples 
to  tell  us  so  to  our  faces!  And  you  call  my  husband  callous?" 

Up  to  this  point  Ebenezer  had  spoken  gently,  even  timidly,  in  his  fear 
of  wounding  the  lady's  pride.  But  among  the  curious  new  emotions  that 
possessed  him  was  a  strange  self-assurance,  even  a  quiet  sort  of  boldness, 
siich  as  he'd  never  felt  before  in  a  woman's  presence.  Where  had  he  ac- 
quired it?  He  scarcely  bothered  to  wonder,  but  on  the  strength  of  it  caught 
her  hand,  held  it  fast  against  her  efforts  to  wrench  free,  and  pressed  it 
against  his  chest. 

"Feel  my  heart!"  he  ordered.  "Is  that  the  pulse  of  a  Christian  saint? 
See  how  my  breast  heaves  and  my  mouth  hangs  parted  with  ardent  res- 
piration! Can  you  believe  I  sit  here  coldly?" 

Taken  aback  by  this  sudden  move,  Mrs.  Russecks  made  no  reply;  an 
uncertain,  irritated  disdain  took  the  place  of  her  initial  anger. 

Ebenezer  spoke  on,  still  clasping  her  hand.  "Thou'rt  no  child,  Mrs. 
Russecks;  surely  you  can  see  you  have  possessed  me  with  desire!  Nay,  only 
twice  in  my  life  have  I  burned  so,  and  both  times— i'Christ,  the  memory 
scalds  me  with  remorse!— both  times  I  came  within  an  ace  of  commiting 
rape  upon  the  woman  I  loved!  And  'sblood,  thou'rt  handsome— by  far 


[  668  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

the  comeliest  lady  I've  seen  in  Maryland!  Thou'rt  the  masterwork 
whereof  your  Henrietta's  but  a  copy!" 

In  the  face  of  these  protestations,  the  miller's  wife  could  maintain  but 
a  pouting  remnant  of  her  fury.  "What  is't  unmans  you  then?"  She  could 
not  restrain  a  smile,  or  Ebenezer  a  blush,  when  even  as  she  spoke  she 
noticed  that  he  was  in  a  condition  far  from  unmanly.  "Or  better,  since 
I  see  for  a  fact  thou'rt  ardent,  what  holds  you  back?  Is't  fear  of  my  hus- 
band?" 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head.  "He  is  fearsome  enough,  but  I  trust  Miss 
Mungummory  to  detain  him." 

"Sure,  thou'rt  not  afraid  of  the  consequences?  Tis  not  likely  I'll  ruin 
my  own  name,  d'ye  think,  or  come  seeking  you  out  with  my  belly 
a-blossom!" 

-Nay,  nay " 

"Then  where's  the  rub?"  Her  voice  began  to  show  fresh  irritation.  "Is't 
that  ye  fear  I'm  poxed  like  many  another  strumpet?  Tis  a  wondrous  pru- 
dent ravisher,  i'faith,  that  asks  his  victims  for  a  bill  o'  health!" 

"Stay,  you  slander  yourself,  madam!  I  swear  to  Heav'n  this  is  the  rarest 
opportunity  of  my  life:  who  wins  thy  favors  wins  a  splendid  prize;  the 
world  must  regard  him  with  awe  and  envy!  Twere  a  rare,  a  singular  pleasure 
to  accept  so  sweet  a  gift;  'tis  a  rare  and  singular  pain  to  say  you  nay,  and 

would  be  e'en  if  my  rejection  were  no  insult "  He  paused  and  smiled. 

"Dear  lady,  you  little  dream  the  whole  and  special  nature  your  appeal  bears 
for  me!" 

His  manner  was  so  cordial,  his  compliment  so  curious,  that  Mrs.  Russecks's 
face  softened  again.  Once  more  she  demanded  an  explanation,  and  even 
threatened  in  a  vague  way  to  denounce  the  poet  to  her  husband  as  an 
impostor  if  he  would  not  be  candid  with  her,  but  her  tone  was  more 
coaxing  than  annoyed. 

"You  upbraid  yourself  for  having  been  forward,"  Ebenezer  said,  "and 
declare  I  contemn  you  for't;  yet  the  truth  is,  lady,  thou'rt  but  the  more 
my  conqueror  for  seizing  the  initiative.  I  admire  your  grace,  I  savor  your 

beauty,  but  beyond  both How  can  I  phrase  it?  Methinks  you've  tact 

and  wisdom  enough  to  deal  with  my  own  blundering  innocence,  which  else 
would  make  a  fiasco  of  our  adventure  ,  .  ." 

"Ah,  now,  Sir  Benjamin,  this  is  no  ravisher  I  hear  speaking!" 

"Nay,  hear  me  out!  I'll  not  disclose  my  actual  name,  if  you  must  have 
it  so,  but  there's  a  thing  you  must  know.  'Tis  a  thing  I'd  hide  from  one 
less  gentle,  lest  she  wound  me  with't;  but  you,  lady—ah,  belike  'tis  folly, 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  669  ] 

but  I've  an  image  of  you  surprised,  charmed,  e'en  delighted  at  the  fact- 
yet  infinitely  tender  and,  above  all,  appreciative.  Aye,  supremely  appreci- 
ative, as  I  should  be  if "  Bemused  by  the  picture  in  his  mind,  Ebenezer 

would  have  detailed  it  further,  but  the  miller's  wife  cut  him  short,  declaring 
candidly  that  her  curiosity  was  now  a  match  for  her  ardor,  and  should 
he  deny  her  satisfaction  of  the  one  as  well  as  the  other,  he  must  watch  her 
perish  upon  the  spot  and  suffer  the  consequences. 

"Heav'n  forfend."  The  poet  laughed,  still  marveling  at  the  ease  with 
which  he  could  speak.  "The  simple  truth  oft  is,  my  dear  Mrs.  Russecks, 
for  all  my  twenty-eight  years  of  age,  I  am  as  innocent  as  a  nursling,  and 
have  vowed  to  remain  so." 

His  prediction  regarding  the  effect  of  this  announcement  on  the  mill- 
er's wife  was  in  some  measure  borne  out:  she  studied  his  face  as  if  searching 
it  for  evidence  of  insincerity,  and  apparently  finding  none,  asked  in  a  chas- 
tened voice,  "Do  you  mean  to  tell  me— and  thou'rt  no  priest?" 

"Not  of  the  Roman  or  any  other  church,"  Ebenezer  declared.  He  went 
on  to  explain  to  her  how  at  the  outset,  being  a  shy  ungainly  fellow,  he 
had  come  to  regard  his  innocence  as  a  virtue  rather  from  necessity;  how 
not  a  year  past  (though  it  seemed  like  decades!)  he  had  elevated  it,  along 
with  a  certain  artistic  bent  of  his,  to  a  style  of  life,  even  identifying  it 
with  the  essence  of  his  spiritual  being;  and  how  through  a  year  of  the 
most  frightful  tribulation,  and  at  a  staggering  expense  not  only  of  property 
but  perhaps  of  human  lives,  he  had  managed  to  preserve  it  intact.  It  had 
been  some  while  since  he'd  been  obliged  to  consider  seriously  the  matter 
of  his  innocence,  and  though  to  enlarge  upon  its  virtues  and  shudder 
verbally  at  the  prospect  of  its  loss  had  become  second  nature  for  him, 
he  was  surprised  to  find  himself  dissociated  emotionally  from  his  panegyric; 
standing  off,  as  if  it  were,  and  listening  critically.  Since  the  morning  he  had 
composed  his  hymn  to  Chastity,  what  buffetings  from  life  he  had  endured! 
Indeed,  when  Mrs.  Russecks  asked  with  sharp  interest  for  an  explanation 
of  this  wondrous  innocence,  he  was  obliged  to  admit,  both  to  her  and  to 
himself,  that  he  could  call  himself  innocent  no  longer  except  with  regard 
to  physical  love. 

But  the  lady  was  not  yet  satisfied,  "Do  you  mean  you've  no  notion  of 
what  your  friend  and  Henrietta  have  been  about  this  last  half  hour?" 

Ebenezer  blushed,  not  alone  at  the  reference  to  the  other  couple,  but 
also  at  the  realization  (which  he  readily  confessed  to  Mrs.  Russecks) 
that  even  in  the  physical  sense  his  innocence  had  come  to  be  limited  to 
the  mere  technical  feet  of  his  virginity— which  fact  itself  (though  he  would 


[670]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

not  elaborate  further)  was  not  so  altogether  unqualified  as  he  might  wish 

"The  truth  oft  is,  then/'  Mrs.  Russecks  persisted,  "this  precious  Inno 
cence  you  cling  to  hath  been  picked  at  and  pecked  at  till  you've  scarce  s 
meager  tit-bit  oft  left." 

"I  must  own  that  is  the  case,  more's  the  pity." 

"And  doth  that  wretched  tatter  mean  so  much?" 

Ebenezer  sighed.  The  critical  listener  in  his  soul  had  posed  that  very 
question  not  many  moments  earlier,  during  his  speech,  and  had  observed 
by  way  of  answer  a  startling  fact:  his  loss  of  the  quality  of  innocence,  it 
suddenly  seemed,  had  been  accompanied  by  a  commensurate  diminution 
of  the  actual  value  that  he  placed  on  it;  although  he  still  sang  its  praises 
from  witless  force  of  habit,  he  had  been  astonished  to  remark,  in  these 
moments  of  dispassionate  appraisal,  what  slight  emotion  he  truly  felt  now 
at  the  thought  of  losing  it  altogether.  Thus  his  sigh,  and  the  slight  smile 
with  which  he  replied,  "In  sooth  I  have  grown  indifferent  to't,  lady.  Nay, 
more:  I  am  right  weary— weary  of  innocence." 

"La,  then  speak  no  farther!"  Her  voice  was  husky,  her  eyes  bright;  she 
held  out  both  her  hands  for  him  to  take.  "Hither  with  thee,  and  an 
end  to  innocence!" 

But  though  he  took  her  hands  to  show  her  that  his  own  were  a-tremble 
with  desire  and  appreciation,  Ebenezer  would  not  embrace  her. 

"What  I  prized  before  hath  all  but  lost  its  point,"  he  said  gently,  "and 
when  I  think  that  soon  or  late  'twill  come,  this  end  to  innocence  you 
speak  of,  as  sure  as  death  will  come,  and  belike  in  circumstances  by  no 
means  so  pleasurable  as  these,  why,  then  I  wonder:  What  moral  doth  the 
story  hold?  Is't  that  the  universe  is  vain?  The  chaste  and  consecrated  life 
a  hollow  madness?  Or  is't  that  what  the  cosmos  lacks  we  must  ourselves 
supply?  My  brave  assault  on  Maryland— this  knight-errantry  of  Innocence 
and  Art— sure,  I  see  now  •  twas  an  edifice  raised  not  e'en  on  sand  but  on 
the  black  and  vasty  zephyrs  of  the  Pit,  Wherefore  a  voice  in  me  cries, 
'Down  with't,  then!'  while  another  stands  in  awe  before  the  enterprise; 
sees  in  the  vain  construction  all  nobleness  allowed  to  fallen  men.  Tis  no 
mere  castle  in  the  air,  this  second  voice  says,  but  a  temple  of  the  mind* 
Athene's  shrine,  where  the  Intellect  seeks  refuge  from  Furies  more  terrific 
than  e'er  beset  Orestes  in  the  play " 

"Enough!"  Mrs.  Russecks  protested,  but  not  incordially.  "Since  'tis  plain 
you'll  have  none  of  me,  I  withdraw  my  invitation.  But  don't  expect  me 
to  fathom  this  talk  of  Pits  and  Castles:  speak  your  piece  in  Church  Creek 
English,  else  I'll  never  know  in  what  wise  I'm  insulted!" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  671  ] 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head  in  admiration.  'Here's  nobility  in  sooth,  that 
is  rendered  gracious  by  rejection!  And  here's  a  paradox,  for  this  same  grace 
that  lends  me  courage  to  make  clear  my  resolve,  at  the  same  time  deals 
it  a  nigh-to-mortal  blowl" 

"Go  to;  'tis  a  plain  account  I  crave,  not  flattery." 

Thus  assured,  Ebenezer  declared  that  although  to  present  her  then  and 
there  with  the  final  vestige  of  his  innocence  would  be  a  privilege  as  well 
as  a  joy,  he  was  resolved  to  deny  himself  a  pleasure  which,  however  sublime, 
would  be  devoid  of  a  right  significance. 

"When  erst  I  entered  the  lists  of  Life,"  he  said,  "Virginity  was  a  silken 
standard  that  I  waved,  all  bright  and  newly  stitched,  'Tis  weatherblast  and 
run  now,  and  so  rent  by  the  shocks  of  combat  e'en  its  bearer  might 
mistake  it  for  a  boot  rag.  Notwithstanding  which,  'tis  a  banner  still,  and 
hath  earned  this  final  dignity  of  standards:  since  I  must  lose  it,  I'll  not 
abandon  it  by  the  way,  but  surrender  it  with  honor  in  the  field." 

The  poet  himself  was  not  displeased  by  this  conceit,  which  he  judged 
to  be  acceptably  free  from  insult  as  well  as  lucid  and  sincere.  Whether  the 
miller's  wife  shared  his  good  opinion,  however,  he  never  did  learn,  for 
even  as  he  prepared  to  question  her  she  sprang  up  white-faced  from  the 
couch,  having  heard  an  instant  before  he  did  the  sound  of  running  foot- 
falls up  the  path* 

"Pray  God  to  spare  you  for  the  day  of  that  surrender,"  she  said,  in  a 
voice  quite  shaken  with  fright.  "Here  is  my  husband  at  the  door!" 


14:    OBLIVION  IS  ATTAINED  TWICE  BY  THE  MIDLER'S 
WIFE,  ONCE  BY  THE  MILLER  HIMSELF,  AND  NOT  AT  ALL 
BY  THE  POET,  WHO  LIKENS  LIFE  TO  A  SHAMELESS 
PLAYWRIGHT 


MRS.  KUSSECKS'S  FRIGHT,   SO  OXTT  OF   KEEPrNG  WITH  HER  CHARACTER, 

provoked  such  terror  in  Ebenezer  that  at  sight  of  the  miller  rushing  in  with 
sword  held  high,  he  came  near  to  suffering  again  the  misfortune  he  had 
suffered  at  the  King  o'  the  Seas  in  Plymouth.  His  stomach  curdled;  perspi- 
ration ran  from  his  pores;  he  could  neither  move  nor  speak. 

"Mercy,  my  dear!"  Mrs.  Russecks  cried,  running  to  her  husband.  "What- 
ever is  the  matter?" 


[672]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Go  to,  don't  I'll  have  thy  whoring  head  along  with  his!7' 

He  endeavored  to  push  her  aside  in  order  to  get  at  the  cowering  poet,  bul 
she  clung  fast  to  him  like  a  vine  upon  an  oak,  so  that  he  could  only  hobbk 
across  the  parlor. 

"Stay,  Harry,  thou'rt  mistaken!"  she  pleaded.  "Whatever  thy  suspicions 
God  smite  me  dead  if  there  hath  been  aught  'twist  this  man  and  me!" 

"Tis  I  shall  smite!"  the  miller  cried.  "Commissioner  or  no,  there's  guilt 
writ  plain  athwart  his  ugly  face!" 

"As  Heav'n  is  my  witness,  sir!"  Ebenezer  pleaded,  "Madame  Russecks 
and  I  were  merely  conversing!"  But  however  true  the  letter  of  his  protest, 
his  face  indeed  belied  it.  He  leaped  for  safety  as  the  miller  swung. 

"Hold  still,  dammee!" 

The  miller  paused  to  fetch  his  wife  so  considerable  a  swat  with  the  back 
of  his  free  hand  that  she  gave  a  cry  and  fell  to  the  floor.  "Now  we'll  see  thy 
liquorous  innards!" 

Ebenezer  strove  desperately  to  keep  the  parlor  table  between  himself  and 
dismemberment. 

"Let  him  go!"  Mrs.  Russecks  shrieked.  "  Tis  the  other  one  you  must 
find,  ere  he  swive  Henrietta!" 

These  words  undoubtedly  saved  the  poet's  life,  for  Harry  Russecks  had 
flung  over  the  table  with  one  hand  and  driven  him  into  a  corner.  But  the 
mention  of  Henrietta,  whom  he  had  apparently  forgotten,  drove  the  miller 
nearly  mad  with  rage;  he  turned  on  his  wife,  and  for  an  instant  Ebenezer 
was  certain  she  would  suffer  the  fate  he  had  temporarily  been  spared, 

"He  fetched  her  into  the  woods,"  Mrs.  Russecks  said  quickly,  "and  vowed 
he'd  murther  her  if  Sir  Benjamin  or  myself  so  much  blinked  eye  at  him!" 

Relieved  as  he  was  to  see  her  strategy,  Ebenezer  could  not  imagine  that 
anyone  would  be  fooled  by  an  assertion  so  improbable  in  itself  and  so 
discrepant  with  his  own  testimony  that  he  and  the  woman  had  been  idly 
conversing.  But  he  was  reckoning  without  the  miller's  violent  passion;  like  a 
wounded  boar  at  scent  of  his  injurer,  Russecks  gave  a  sort  of  squealing  grunt 
and  charged  outdoors. 

"Make  haste  to  the  mill!"  Mrs.  Russecks  cried  to  Ebenezer.  "Bid  Henri- 
etta slip  into  the  woods  where  Harry  and  I  can  find  her,  and  you  and  your 
friend  hide  yourselves  in  Mary's  wagon!" 

The  poet  jumped  to  follow  her  instructions,  but  upon  stepping  outside, 
just  a  few  seconds  behind  the  miller,  they  saw  the  plan  foiled  before  their 
eyes.  Mary  Mungummoiy,  leading  the  lost  Aphrodite,  had  ran  puffing  and 
panting  into  th'e  dooryard  just  as  the  miller  charged  out  again;  at  the  same 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  673  ] 

moment,  though  Ebenezer  could  not  see  them  from  the  front  steps  of  the 
house,  either  McEvoy  or  Henrietta  or  both  must  have  peered  out  from  the 
mill  to  see  what  the  commotion  was  about,  for  although  Russecks  was 
headed  in  the  general  direction  of  the  woods,  Mary,  knowing  nothing  of 
the  ruse,  dropped  Aphrodite's  halter  and  ran  as  best  she  could  toward  the 
mill,  calling  "Run  for  your  life!  Go  back!  Here  comes  Sir  Harry!"  The  miller 
stopped  in  his  tracks,  wheeled  about,  and  lumbered  after.  A  scream  came 
from  the  mill  and  was  answered  by  another  from  Mrs.  Russecks,  who  ran  a 
few  steps  as  though  to  intercept  her  husband  and  then,  either  stumbling 
or  swooning,  fell  to  the  ground. 

Ebenezer  found  himself  running  also,  but  with  no  idea  at  all  what  to  do. 
He  was  still  somewhat  closer  to  the  mill  door  than  was  Russecks  and  could 
doubtless  have  headed  him  off,  but  with  no  weapons  of  his  own  (nor  any 
familiarity  with  their  use),  such  a  course  would  have  been  suicidal  as  well 
as  ineffective.  Yet  neither  could  he  simply  stand  by  or  look  to  his  own 
escape  while  McEvoy,  and  perhaps  the  girl  too,  were  done  to  death.  There- 
fore he  simply  trotted  without  object  into  the  yard,  ready  to  change  course 
and  speed  at  once  should  the  miller  turn  upon  him,  and  when  Russecks 
charged  past  without  a  glance,  he  turned  and  followed  a  safe  ten  yards 
behind* 

Mary,  meanwhile,  had  disappeared,  but  as  soon  as  Russecks  entered  the 
mill  (whence  issued  at  once  fresh  screams  from  Henrietta)  she  trundled 
from  around  the  corner,  most  distraught 

"God's  blood,  Mister  Cooke,  hell  murther  the  lot  o'  ye!  I  swear  I  did  all 
a  body  could,  but  the  farther  we  went,  the  more  jealous  he  grew,  till  he 
swore  he'd  go  no  farther  for  the  King  himself!  Nay,  don't  go 'in,  sir;  'tis 
your  life!  Ah,  Christ,  yonder  lies  poor  Roxie,  done  to  death!" 

She  hurried  off  to  the  fallen  Mrs.  Russecks,  whom  she  supposed  to  have 
been  run  through  by  the  miller,  and  Ebenezer,  ignoring  her  advice,  pro- 
ceeded quickly  into  the  mill  Already  Russecks  had  started  up  the  ladder 
that  led  to  the  catwalk  and  grain  hopper;  McEvoy  was  just  scrambling  from 
the  upper  rungs  of  the  second  ladder,  which  led  from  the  hopper  to  the 
loft;  and  near  the  edge  of  the  loft  itself  stood  pretty  Henrietta,  self- 
incriminated  by  the  petticoats  in  which  she  stood  and  screamed. 

"Ha!  Yell  run  no  farther!"  the  miller  shouted  from  the  platform,  and 
Ebenezer  realized  that  the  lovers  were  trapped. 

'Throw  down  the  ladderl"  he  cried  to  McEvoy.  The  Irishman  heard  him 
and  leaped  to  follow  his  counsel  just  as  Russecks  began  to  climb.  But  al- 
though the  ladder  was  neither  nailed  nor  tied  in  place,  its  stringers  had 


[  674  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

been  wedged  between  two  protruding  floor-joists  of  the  loft,  too  tightly 
for  McEvoy  to  free  them  by  hand  from  his  awkward  position.  The  miller 
climbed  with  difficulty  to  the  second  rung,  the  third,  and  the  fourth,  holding 
the  cutlass  in  his  hand  and  watching  his  quarry's  futile  struggle. 

Now  on  the  platform  himself,  Ebenezer  watched  with  fainting  heart. 
"Throw  something  down,  John!  Knock  him  off!" 

McEvoy  looked  wildly  about  the  loft  for  a  missile  and  came  up  with 
nothing  more  formidable  than  a  piece  of  cypress  studding,  perhaps  three 
feet  long  and  three  inches  on  a  side.  For  a  moment  he  stood  poised  to  hurl 
it;  Russecks  halted  his  climb  and  waited  to  dodge  the  blowT  growling  and 
jeering.  Then,  thinking  better  of  it,  McEvoy  fitted  one  end  of  the  stud  be- 
hind the  topmost  rung  of  the  ladder,  and  using  the  edge  of  the  loft  for  a 
fulcrum,  pulled  back  upon  the  other  with  all  his  weight.  There  was  a  loud 
crack;  Ebenezer,  fearing  the  worst,  caught  his  breath;  but  apparently 
neither  rung  nor  lever  had  broken,  for  McEvoy,  after  one  quick  glance, 
placed  a  foot  against  each  stringer-top  for  extra  mechanical  advantage  and 
heaved  back  again.  Another  crack:  Ebenezer  distinctly  saw  the  ladder  move 
out  an  inch  or  so,  and  the  miller,  uncertain  whether  to  rush  for  the  top  or 
climb  down  before  he  fell,  gripped  the  sides  more  tightly  and  cursed.  The 
new  angle  of  the  lever  afforded  McEvoy  less  of  a  purchase  and  tended  to 
lift  as  well  as  push  the  ladder,  but  Henrietta  sprang  to  his  assistance,  and 
on  the  third  try  their  joint  effort  succeeded  in  freeing  the  ladder  from  the 
joists.  Its  slight  inclination  kept  it  from  falling  backwards  at  once,  and  in 
the  moment  required  for  McEvoy  to  pull  it  over  sideways,  the  miller  jumped 
safely  to  the  platform. 

McEvoy  laughed.  "Love  conquers  dl,  Your  Majesty!  Murther  us  now, 
sir!" 

Russecks  picked  himself  up  and  shook  his  sword  at  the  loft-  '*Well  done, 
dammee;  what  keeps  me  down  will  keep  ye  up,  and  we  shall  see  how  soon 
ye  choke  on  your  damned  love!  There's  many  a  keep  taken  by  siege  that 
hath  withstood  the  most  furious  assaultsf 

Ebenezer  had  observed  all  this  from  the  far  end  of  the  same  platform  on 
which  the  miller  now  stood  and  had  seen  the  gravity  of  their  position  earlier 
than  had  either  McEvoy  or  Henrietta,  who  were  dismayed  by  Russeeks's 
words.  That  his  own  position  was  far  from  safe  did  not  occur  to  him;  his 
whole  attention  was  directed  to  the  lovers,  and  when  he  recalled  that  Mc- 
Evoy knew  nothing  of  Mrs.  Russecfcs's  abduction-story,  his  sudden  vision  of 
a  stratagem  bjinded  him  to  more  prudent  considerations. 

"Prithee,  sir!"  he  cried  to  the  miller,  in  a  voice  loud  enough  for  them  to 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  675  ] 

hear  and  be  advised  by.  "Don't  tempt  his  anger,  I  beg  you,  while  he  hath 
your  daughter  in  his  clutches!  However  he  hath  wronged  you,  'tis  better  he 
go  free  than  that  he  murther  Henrietta  before  your  eyes,  or  work  lewd 
tortures  on  her  as  desperate  men  are  wont " 

He  got  no  farther;  whether  Russecks  had  heard  his  earlier  suggestions  to 
McEvoy  or  now  noticed  his  presence  for  the  first  time,  he  was  clearly  of 
the  same  mind  no  longer  about  the  poet's  innocence.  He  turned  on  him, 
brandishing  the  cutlass,  and  said,  "WTzo  gives  a  man  horns  must  beware  of 
a  goring/" 

Ebenezer  lost  no  time  fleeing  down  the  nearby  ladder  to  the  ground  and 
racing  for  the  front  doorway,  where  he  saw  Mary  and  the  miller's  wife 
anxiously  looking  on.  But  however  distraught,  Mrs.  Russecks  still  had  her 
wits  about  her;  before  Ebenezer  reached  the  door  she  ran  in  towards  the 
fallen  ladder. 

"Now,  Henrietta!  Climb  down  while  he  chases  Sir  Benjamin!" 

Her  order  was  so  public  and  premature,  its  object  must  have  been  merely 
to  divert  her  husband.  If  so,  it  succeeded  at  once:  the  miller  stopped  half 
across  the  platform  and  glared  from  her  to  the  loft. 

Til  quarter  the  lot  o'  ye!" 

Ebenezer  spied  against  the  wall  a  hooked  iron  rod,  like  a  fireplace  poker, 
and  snatching  it  up,  hastened  to  Mrs.  Russecks's  defense. 

"Go  to  the  inn/'  he  ordered  Mary,  "and  fetch  all  the  folk  this  wretch 
hath  bullied!" 

"Bravo/"  McEvoy  shouted  from  the  loft.  "Let  him  run  ye  round  the 
millstones,  Eben,  till  I  scramble  down;  'tis  one  against  all  the  rest  of  us, 
and  I've  a  sickle  here  to  match  his  bloody  meat-axe!" 

So  saying  he  hurled  his  piece  of  studding  at  the  miller,  tucked  the  new- 
found sickle  into  his  belt,  and  swung  his  legs  around  one  of  two  wooden 
pillars  supporting  the  loft,  ready  to  climb  down  at  the  first  opportunity. 
Maty  disappeared,  presumably  on  her  errand,  and  Mrs.  Russecks,  with  a 
wary  eye  on  her  husband,  struggled  to  raise  the  fallen  ladder.  Russecks  him- 
self, though  untouched  by  McEvoy's  missile,  seemed  driven  to  the  verge  of 
apoplexy  by  his  own  wrath.  After  some  moments  of  indecision  he  fixed  his 
attention  upon  Ebenezer,  who  trembled  at  the  hatred  in  his  face, 

"  Twill  not  be  two  against  one  for  long!"  He  advanced  two  steps  to- 
wards the  end  of  the  platform  and  then,  seeing  Ebenezer  prepare  to  flee, 
turned  back  to  the  middle  and  commenced  to  climb  the  railing.  It  was 
evidently  his  intention  either  to  jump  or  to  climb  down  upon  the  mill- 


[676]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

stones  themselves  in  order  to  prevent  Ebenezer  from  playing  the  part  of 
Hector  around  the  walls  of  Troy. 

"Ah,  nay!"  Mrs.  Russecks  cried  at  once,  and  before  her  husband  could 
let  go  the  railing  she  sprang  to  pull  the  lever  that  engaged  the  millstone 
shaft  with  that  of  the  waterwheel  outside.  The  great  top  stone  rumbled 
and  turned,  and  Russecks  jerked  himself  up,  his  footing  removed  from 
under  him. 

"God  dammee!"  he  bellowed  almost  tearfully.  "God  dammee  one  and 
all!-" 

Holding  on  with  his  free  hand,  he  threw  his  leg  back  over  the  rail  to 
regain  the  platform  and  was  undone:  as  he  swung  himself  over,  the  great 
scabbard  at  his  inside  hip  caught  momentarily  between  the  rails;  to  free  it 
he  drew  back  his  abdomen  and  endeavored  to  hold  on  with  the  finger  ends 
of  his  cutlass-bearing  hand.  They  slipped  at  once,  and  being  either  un- 
willing or  unable  to  let  go  his  sword  and  snatch  for  a  new  grip,  he  tumbled 
backwards.  Both  women  screamed  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  Ebenezer's 
nerves  tingled.  The  distance  of  the  fall  was  short,  the  attitude  deadly: 
Russecks's  bootheels  were  still  at  the  level  of  the  platform  when  his  head 
struck  the  millstone  below. 

"Smite  him!"  McEvoy  called  to  Ebenezer.  But  there  was  no  need  to,  for 
the  miller's  head  and  shoulders  rolled  off  the  stone  and  he  lay  senseless  on 
the  ground.  Henrietta  waxed  hysterical  at  the  sight;  her  mother,  on  the 
other  hand,  screamed  no  more  after  the  first  time,  but  calmly  pushed  the 
clutch-lever  to  disengage  the  stone  and  only  then  inquired  of  Ebenezer, 
"Is  he  dead?" 

The  poet  made  a  gingerly  examination.  The  back  of  the  miller's  head  was 
bloody  where  it  had  struck,  but  he  was  respiring  still. 

"He  seems  alive,  but  knocked  quite  senseless.  Tis  likely  he  cracked  his 
skull." 

"Worse  luck  'twas  not  his  neck,"  Mrs.  Russecks  said* 

Mary  Mungummory  peered  cautiously  through  the  doorway.  "Heav'n  be 
praised,  the  blackguard's  dead!  Not  a  coward  would  come  to  help,  for  all 
he  hath  abused  'em,  and  Master  Poet  hath  turned  the  trick  himself!" 

"Nay,"  said  McEvoy,  on  the  ground  at  last,  "he  tricked  himself,  did  Sir 
Harry,  and  he's  not  dead  yet."  He  took  up  the  cutlass  and  held  it  to  the 
miller's  throat.  "With  your  permission,  Mrs.  Russecks  *  .  ." 

But  though  the  miller's  wife  showed  no  emotion  whatever  regarding  his 
accident,  she  would  not  permit  a  coup  de  gr&e*  "Fetch  down  my  daughter, 
sir,  an  it  please  you,  and  we'll  put  my  husband  to  bed/* 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [677] 

All  the  company  showed  surprise,  and  all  but  Ebenezer  indignation  as 
well 

"The  scoundrel  might  come  to  his  senses  any  minute  and  have  at  us 
again!"  McEvoy  protested. 

"I  trust  you  and  Sir  Benjamin  will  be  well  out  of  Church  Creek  ere  he 
comes  to." 

"What  of  thyself,  lady?"  Ebenezer  asked. 

"And  Henriettal"  McEvoy  protested. 

Mrs.  Russecks  replied  that  for  all  his  threats,  her  husband  would  do  no 
worse  than  beat  the  two  of  them,  and  they  had  lived  through  many  such 
beatings  before. 

"Tis  all  very  fine  if  yeVe  a  taste  for  birch,"  McEvoy  said  shortly,  "but 
the  devil  shan't  lay  a  finger  on  Henrietta!"  He  put  up  the  sword  with 
disgust  and  carried  the  fallen  ladder  toward  the  platform  from  which  it 
reached  the  loft  "Til  fetch  her  out  o'  the  county  if  need  be!" 

"Henrietta  may  stay  or  leave  as  she  pleases,"  Mrs*  Russecks  declared. 

Mary  Mungummory  regarded  the  witless  miller  and  shook  her  head.  "I 
cannot  fathom  ye,  Roxannel  Yd  have  swore  ye'd  rejoice  to  see  the  beast 
dead,  as  every  soul  else  in  Church  Creek  would!  Sure,  thou'rt  not  o'  that 
queer  sort  that  lust  after  floggings,  are  ye?  The  sort  that  hire  my  girls  to 
have  at  'em  with  a  cato'-nine-tails?  Or  haply  thou'rt  of  such  soft  stuff  e'en 
a  wounded  viper  moves  ye  to  pity?" 

Mrs,  Russecks  waved  an  irritated  hand  at  her  friend.  "I  loathe  him,  Mary: 
none  knows  that  better  than  you,  that  hath  listened  to  the  tale  of  my  trials 
these  fiv&and-twenty  years.  He  is  the  grossest  of  men,  and  the  cruellest;  he 
hath  made  a  torture  of  my  life,  and  poor  Henrietta's.  I  wed  him  knowing 
full  well  'twould  be  so,  and  God  hath  fitly  punished  me  for  that  sin;  'tis  not 
for  me  to  terminate  that  punishment," 

Ebenezer  was  moved  by  this  speech,  but  at  the  risk  of  offending  her  he 
ventured  to  point  out  that  she  had  not  scrupled  to  commit  adultery  in  the 
past 

"What  doth  that  serve  to  prove,"  she  demanded  sharply,  "save  that 
mortals  sometimes  stray  from  the  path  of  saints?  'Tis  true  I've  played  him 
false  with  pleasure;  'tis  likewise  true  I  rejoiced  to  see  him  fall  (albeit  'twas 
not  my  motive  when  I  pulled  the  lever),  and  would  rejoice  thrice  o'er  to 
see  him  in  the  grave.  But  'twill  ne'er  be  I  that  puts  him  there  or  gives  any 
soul  leave  to  murther  him." 

Mary  sniffed- M  'Sheart,  is  this  Roxie  Russecks  I  hear,  or  Mary  Magdalene? 
At  least  don't  nurse  the  scoundrel  back  to  health,  if  ye've  any  love  left  for 


[  678  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

the  rest  o*  mankind;  leave  him  here  where  he  fell,  and  belike  he'll  be  in 
Hell  ere  morning." 

But  Mrs.  Russecks  stood  firm  and  ordered  Henrietta— now  properly  at- 
tired and  rescued  from  the  loft— to  help  her  carry  the  still-senseless  miller 
to  his  chamber.  The  girl  looked  uncertainly  to  McEvoy,  whose  eyes  chal- 
lenged her,  and  refused  to  obey. 

"I  pray  ye'll  forgive  me,  Mother,  but  I  shan't  lift  a  finger  to  save  him.  I 
hope  he  dies." 

Her  mother  frowned  for  just  an  instant;  on  second  thought  she  smiled 
and  declared  that  if  Henrietta  intended  to  "place  herself  under  the  pro- 
tection" of  Mr.  McEvoy,  the  two  of  them  could  depart  immediately  with 
her  blessing  and  should  do  so  before  Russecks  regained  consciousness;  then, 
to  the  surprise  of  Ebenezer  and  McEvoy,  she  added  something  in  rapid, 
murmuring  French,  of  which  the  poet  caught  only  the  noun  dispense  de 
bans  and  the  adverb  bientdt  Henrietta  blushed  like  a  virgin  and  replied 
first  in  clearer  French  that  while  she  had  reason  to  believe  McEvoy  actually 
admired  her  &  la  point  de  fiangailles,  she  had  no  intention  of  becoming  his 
mistress  until  she  had  further  knowledge  of  his  station  in  life.  "For  the 
present,"  she  continued  in  English,  "I  mean  to  stay  here  with  you  and 
share  your  misfortunes,  but  dammee  if  Fll  do  aught  to  hasten  their  comingl" 

"Well  spoken!"  Mary  applauded.  "No  more  will  I,  Roxie;  'twere  mad- 
ness!" 

"Nor  I,"  McEvoy  joined  in;  "Neither  will  I  run  off  like  a  mouse  ere  the 
cat  awakes.  I  mean  to  stand  guard  outside  his  chamber  with  this  sword,  if 
ye  will  permit  me—or  on  the  edge  o'  yonder  woods  if  ye  will  not— and  the 
hour  he  lays  a  wrathful  hand  on  Henrietta  shall  be  his  last  on  earth,  if  it  be 
not  mine." 

"Tis  past  my  strength  to  carry  him  alone,"  Mrs.  Russecks  entreated 
Ebenezer.  "I  beg  you  to  help  me,  sir." 

Feeling  partly  responsible  for  the  miller's  condition,  Ebenezer  agreed. 
The  brief  exchange  in  French  had  set  his  mind  strangely  abuzz,  so  that  he 
scarcely  heard  the  protests  of  the  others  until  Mary  happened  to  say,  as 
they  left  the  mill,  "Whence  sprang  this  nice  concern  for  the  devil's  health, 
Roxie?  There  was  a  time  you  abandoned  him  right  readily  to  be  murthered!" 

"  Twas  that  time  taught  me  my  lesson,"  Mrs.  Russecks  replied,  "else  I'd 
ne'er  have  ransomed  him.  If  they  had  thrown  him  to  the  sharks,  methinks 
I'd  have  ended  my  own  life  as  well" 

A  number  of  villagers  had  gathered  between  the  inn  and  the  mill  to  learn 
the  outcome  of  the  fight;  on  catching  sight  of  the  vanquished  miller  they 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [679] 

sent  up  a  cheer,  whereupon  Mrs.  Russecks  dispatched  Mary  to  warn  them 
that  their  joy  was  in  some  measure  premature.  The  rest  of  the  party  entered 
the  house;  Henrietta  and  McEvoy  remained  in  the  parlor,  while  Mrs. 
Russecks  and  the  poet  carried  their  burden  to  the  master's  bedroom.  The 
miller  showed  no  signs  at  all  of  recovering  from  his  coma,  even  when  his 
wife  set  to  work  washing  and  bandaging  his  injury. 

"I  shall  bind  up  his  head  and  fetch  him  a  physician,"  she  sighed.  "If  he 
lives,  he  lives;  if  he  dies,  he  dies.  In  any  case  I  am  your  debtor  for  humoring 
my  wishes/'  She  paused,  noticing  the  poet's  distracted  countenance.  "Is 
something  amiss,  sir?" 

"Only  my  curiosity,"  Ebenezer  answered.  "If  you  fancy  yourself  in  my 
debt,  dear  lady,  prithee  discharge  it  by  allowing  me  one  bold  question:  were 
you  and  your  daughter  once  captured  by  a  pirate  named  Thomas  Pound?" 

The  woman's  alarm  made  clear  the  answer.  She  looked  with  new  eyes 
at  Ebenezer  and  marveled  as  though  to  herself,  "Aye,  but  why  did  it  not 

occur  to  me  before?  Your  weathered  clothes  and  stoiy  of  a  shipwreck ! 

But  'tis  nigh  six  years  ago  you  captured  us,  'twixt  Jamestown  and  St.  Mary's 
— howe'er  could  you  recall  it?" 

"Nay,  madam,  I  am  no  pirate"— Ebenezer  laughed— "nor  ever  was;  else 
'twere  not  likely  I'd  be  yet  a  virgin,  do  you  think?" 

Mrs.  Russecks  colored.  "Yet  surely  our  shame  is  not  the  talk  of  England, 
and  thou'rt  not  a  native  of  the  Province.  How  is't  you  know  the  story?" 

"  Tis  more  famous  than  you  imagine,"  the  poet  teased.  "I  swear  to  you 
I  heard  it  from  my  tutor  in  Magdalene  College." 

"Nay,  sir,  don't  shame  me  farther!  Speak  the  truth!" 

Ebenezer  assured  her  that  he  had  done  just  that.  "This  tutor  is  an  odd  and 
formidable  fellow,  that  hath  been  equally  at  home  in  Tom  Pound's  fo'c'sle 
and  Isaac  Newton's  study;  to  this  hour  I  know  not  whether  he  is  at  heart  a 
fiend  or  a  philosopher.  'Tis  in  search  of  him  and  his  salvage  brother  I  came 
hither,  for  reasons  so  momentous  I  tremble  to  tell  them,  and  so  urgent— 
ah  well,  you  shall  judge  for  yourself  anon,  when  I  explain.  This  man,  dear 
lady,  you  were  once  of  wondrous  service  to,  albeit  you  knew  it  not,  and  in 
consideration  of  that  service  he  saved  your  life  and  honor  from  the  pirates. 
Have  you  e'er  heard  tell  of  Henry  Burlingame?" 

Mrs,  Russecks  crimsoned  further;  looking  to  assure  herself  that  neither 
.her  husband  nor  the  couple  in  the  parlor  had  overheard,  she  closed  the 
bedroom  door.  Ebenezer  apologized  for  his  ungallantry  and  begged  for- 
giveness on  grounds  of  the  great  urgency  of  his  mission,  adding  that  Henry 
Burlingame  (which,  he  gave  her  to  understand,  was  actually  the  name  of 


[  680  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

her  savior  and  quondam  lover)  had  surely  not  told  the  story  to  anyone  else, 
and  that  he  had  expressed  nothing  but  the  fondest  and  most  chivalrous 
opinions  of  both  Mrs.  Russecks  and  her  daughter.  The  miller's  wife  glanced 
uneasily  toward  the  door. 

"Let  me  assure  you  farther/'  Ebenezer  said.  "You  need  not  be  anxious 
after  Henrietta's  honor:  McEvoy  knows  naught  of  this/' 

"Methinks  he  hath  learned  already  she  is  no  virgin,  for  all  that's  worth," 
Mrs.  Russecks  said  candidly.  "But  I  must  tell  you,  Mister— Benjamin— albeit 
'tis  an  empty  point  of  honor  and  bespeaks  no  merit  for  us  whatsoever,  thy 
tutor  is  a  most  uncommon  sort  of  lover,  such  as  I've  ne'er  heard  tell  of 
before  or  since,  and  'tis  quite  likely  you  have  a  wrong  conception  of  our 
adventure  .  .  /' 

Ebenezer  lowered  his  eyes  in  embarrassment  and  admitted  that  he  had 
indeed  been  misled  on  that  matter— and  not  alone  with  regard  to  the  two 
ladies  present— until  quite  recently,  when  the  curious  truth  about  Burlin- 
game  had  been  discovered  to  him  with  strange,  unsuspected  significance 
both  personal  and  general. 

"I'God,  lady,  such  a  deal  I  have  to  tell  you!  Burlingame's  quest,  that  you 
yourself  played  no  small  role  inl  My  own  enormous  errand,  wherein  you 
may  play  yet  another  role!  What  a  shameless,  marvelous  dramatist  is  Life, 
that  daily  plots  coincidences  e'en  Chaucer  would  not  dare  and  ventures 
complications  too  knotty  for  Boccacce!" 

Mrs.  Russecks  concurred  with  this  sentiment  and  expressed  her  readiness 
to  hear  the  full  story  once  she'd  had  a  private  word  with  Henrietta  to  spare 
her  daughter  unnecessary  alarm.  "Methinks  my  husband  will  not  soon  be 
dangerous,  and  whate'er  this  weighty  quest  of  thine,  I'm  sure  it  can  wait 
till  morning.  'Twill  make  a  pleasant  evening's  telling,  Sir  Benjamin/' 

"Ah,  then,  may  we  not  have  done  with  pseudonyms  at  last?"  What  with 
his  flattering  adventure  of  the  afternoon,  his  escape  from  the  terrible  miller, 
and  his  recognition  of  the  Russecks  women  as  the  same  whom  Burlingame 
had  saved  from  the  pirates'  attack,  Ebenezer  was  in  more  buoyant  spirits 
than  he  had  enjoyed  for  some  time.  As  they  left  the  miller's  bedside  he 
boldly  put  his  arm  about  Mrs,  Russecks's  waist  "I  am  no  more  Sir  Benjamin 
Oliver  than  McEvoy  is  His  Majesty's  Commissioner  of  Provincial  Wind- 
and  Water-Mills;  did  you  not  hear  Mary  call  me  'Mister  Poet?' " 

He  felt  the  miller's  wife  stiffen  and  removed  his  arm,  assuming  that  she 
was  not  pleased  by  the  familiarity;  to  cover  his  embarrassment  he  pretended 
that  it  was  his  vocation  which  disturbed  her.  "Ah,  now,  is  a  poet  less 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  68l  ] 

attractive  than  a  knight?  What  if  peradventure  he  bore  a  pompous  title, 
like  Laureate  of  Maryland?97 

Mrs.  Russecks  averted  her  eyes.  "You  replace  one  disguise  with  another/' 
she  said  tersely. 

"Nay,  I  swear't!  I  am  Ebenezer  Cooke,  that  once  pretended  to  the  title 
Laureate  of  Maryland!7 

The  miller's  wife  seemed  not  so  much  skeptical  as  angry.  "Why  do  you 
lie  to  me?  I  happen  to  know  for  a  certainty  that  the  Laureate  of  Maryland 
is  living  at  Maiden  this  minute  with  his  father  and  doth  not  resemble  you 
in  any  particular," 

Ebenezer  laughed,  though  somewhat  disconcerted  by  her  manner.  "  Tis 
no  surprise  to  me  if  certain  evil  men  have  hired  a  brace  of  new  impostors; 
their  motives  still  appall  me,  but  I've  grown  quite  used  to  their  methods. 
But  look  me  straight  in  the  face,  my  dear  Roxanne:  I  swear  by  all  that's 
dear  to  me,  I  am  Ebenezer  Cooke  of  St.  Giles  in  the  Fields  and  Maiden/' 

Mrs,  Russecks  turned  to  him  a  drained,  incredulous  face.  "Dear  Heav'n, 
what  if  we " 

"Go  to,  thou'rt  a  new  Descartes  for  doubting!  Summon  good  Mary 
hither,  that  saw  me  grant  away  my  property  like  a  ninny!" 

His  protest  went  no  further,  for  Mrs.  Russecks  turned  to  the  door,  laid 
her  hand  upon  the  knob,  and  swooned  to  the  floor  as  senseless  as  her 
husband. 


15:  IN  PURSUIT  OF  HIS  MANIFOLD  OBJECTIVES  THE 
P(3ET  MEETS  AN  UNSAVAGED  SAVAGE  HUSBAND  AND 
AN  UNENGLISHED  ENGLISH  WIFE 


HENRIETTA  AND  MCEVOY  CAME  QUICKLY  AT  EBENEZER*S  SUMMONS,  AND 

with  the  assistance  of  Mary  Mungummory,  who  had  returned  in  the  mean- 
time, Mrs.  Russecks  was  put  to  bed  in  Henrietta's  room.  It  was  generally 
agreed,  even  after  Ebenezer  had  explained  the  odd  circumstances  of  her 
swoon,  that  the  strain  of  the  afternoon's  events  was  the  cause  of  it;  no  one 
could  suggest  a  more  reasonable  account.  But  when,  a  little  later,  Mrs. 
Russecks  was  revived  by  salts  of  ammonia,  she  demanded,  through  Mary, 
that  Ebenezer  leave  her  house  immediately  and  never  return, 
"Thou'rt  a  sly  deceiver,  Ebenl"  McEvoy  teased,  though  he  was  as 


[  682  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

mystified  by  the  demand  as  were  the  others.  "What  is't  ye  tried  to  do  in 
the  chamber  yonder?" 

"I  swear  to  Heav'n  I  have  done  naught!"  the  poet  protested.  "Prithee, 
Mary,  tell  her  I  shall  go  instantly,  but  I  must  know  in  what  wise  I  oiended 
her,  and  crave  her  pardon  for't!" 

Mary  delivered  the  message  and  came  back  to  report  that  Mrs.  Russecks 
would  neither  explain  her  demand  nor  give  ear  to  any  blanket  apologies 
for  affrontive  words  or  deeds.  "She  said  The  man  hath  done  naught  amiss, 
Mary,  but  I  cannot  bear  him  in  my  house7— her  very  words!  De'il  take  me  if 
I've  e'er  seen  the  like  oft;  have  you,  Henrietta?" 

The  girl  agreed  that  such  passionate  unreasonableness  was  quite  out  of 
character  for  her  mother,  who  as  a  rule  was  the  soul  of  hospitality  and  took 
special  pains  not  to  share  her  husband's  failings. 

Ebenezer  sighed.  "Ah  well,  then  I  must  leave  at  once  and  find  a  bed 
somewhere.  Prithee  think  no  ill  of  me,  Miss  Russecks,  and  do  endeavor  to 
learn  what  lies  behind  all  this,  for  I  shan't  rest  easy  till  I've  heard  and 
redressed  it/'  In  the  morning,  he  went  on  to  say,  he  would  find  some  means 
of  traveling  to  Tobacco  Stick  Bay;  whether  his  double  mission  there  met 
success  or  failure,  he  would  soon  return  to  Church  Creek,  where  he  pro- 
foundly hoped  to  find  Mrs.  Russecks  relenting  enough  if  not  to  forgive,  at 
least  to  explain  his  faux  pas.  "You  had  best  remain  here,"  he  told  McEvoy, 
whose  face  had  registered  great  discomfort  at  the  mention  of  leaving.  "If 
the  twain  of  us  go,  Billy  Rumbly  might  think  he's  being  threatened." 

"Did  you  say  Billy  Rumbly?"  Henrietta  asked. 

"He  did  that,"  Mary  affirmed,  "but  ye  must  swallow  your  curiosity  till 
Mr.  McEvoy  and  I  can  tell  ye  the  tale."  To  Ebenezer  she  said,  "  'Tis  you 
must  forgive  poor  Roxie,  Mr.  Cooke,  for  I  know  thou'rt  too  fine  a  gentleman 
to  be  at  fault;  'tis  naught  but  this  wretched  afternoon  that  hath  overwrought 
her.  As  for  tomorrow,  ye  must  allow  me  to  take  ye  in  the  wagon,  I  greatly 
wish  to  see  this  Billy  Rumbly  my  own  self,  for  what  reasons  I  scarce  need 
say,  and  'tis  not  impossible  I  may  be  able  to  help  persuade  him  to  our 
cause." 

Ebenezer  gratefully  accepted  both  her  offer  and  a  loan  of  two  pounds 
sterling,  his  own  resources  being  exhausted.  He  charged  Mary  to  inform 
him  at  once  of  any  change  in  Mrs,  Russecks's  attitude  or  the  miller's  condi- 
tion, and  departed,  leaving  McEvoy  the  unenviable  job  of  protecting  the 
household  against  Sir  Harry's  retribution.  He  walked  alone  to  the  inn,  much 
troubled  in  spirit,  and  was  received  almost  as  a  hero  by  a  number  of  villagers 
who  lingered  there  for  news  from  the  mill  Their  attitude  was  one  of  re- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [683] 

strained  excitement:  to  a  man  they  seemed  ready  for  riotous  celebration  at 
the  proper  news,  but  they  dared  not  show  their  jubilation  prematurely  lest 
the  miller  recover  and  learn  of  it.  Ebenezer's  announcement  that  as  yet 
Russecks  showed  no  improvement  was  greeted  with  ill-disguised  rejoicing, 
and  the  innkeeper  himself,  an  employee  of  the  miller,  insisted  that  the  poet 
take  supper  and  lodging  at  the  house's  expense. 

During  the  meal  Ebenezer  pondered  Mrs.  Russecks's  strange  behavior. 
The  only  theory  he  could  devise  to  account  for  both  her  knowledge  of  the 
state  of  things  at  Maiden  and  her  strong  adverse  reaction  to  his  name  was 
the  not  unlikely  one  that  Russecks  was  affiliated  with  William  Smith  the 
cooper  and  Captain  Mitchell's  sinister  traffic  in  vice;  certainly  the  man's 
character  was  base  enough,  and  his  inn  was  a  natural  place  for  that  sort  of 
traffic.  At  length  he  mustered  the  courage  to  approach  the  innkeeper. 

"I  say,  friend,  have  you  ever  heard  of  Eben  Cooke,  that  was  wont  to 
call  himself  Laureate  of  Maryland?" 

"Eben  Cooke?"  The  man's  face  brightened.  "Why,  that  I  have,  sir;  he's 
the  wight  that  runs  the  Cooke's  Point  whorehouse  with  Bill  Smith." 

The  poet's  heart  tingled;  it  appeared  that  his  inference  had  some  truth 
in  it,  however  imperfectly  it  explained  Mrs.  Russecks's  swoon,  "Aye,  that's 
the  man.  But  you've  ne'er  laid  eyes  on  him,  have  you?" 

"Indeed,  Sir  Benjamin"— thus  they  had  greeted  him,  having  got  the 
pseudonym  from  Mary  Mungummory,  and  he'd  deemed  it  imprudent  to 
undeceive  them  before  he  was  certain  of  his  ground— "I've  met  the  man  but 
once,  some  days  since " 

Ebenezer  frowned,  for  he  had  been  about  to  reveal  himself.  "You  say 
you've  met  him?" 

"Aye,  that  I  did,  sir,  just  once,  almost  in  the  very  spot  thou'rt  standing 
now.  An  average-looking  fellow  he  was,  naught  to  set  him  off.  Folks  claimed 
he  was  looking  for  a  wench  that  had  run  off  from  Maiden— one  o'  the 
friskers,  don't  ye  know— but  I'll  own  he  made  no  mention  oft  to  me." 

"I  see." 

The  innkeeper  grinned. "  Twas  the  Virgin  he  was  after,  we  all  knew  well, 
and  had  he  come  a  few  days  sooner  we'd  have  steered  him  to  her.  But  by 
then  she  was  Lady  Rumbly,  don't  ye  know,  and  de'il  the  man  of  us  would 
lead  him  to  Billy's  wife,  for  all  she's  a  simple  whore.  'Twas  lucky  Sir  Harry 
wasn't  about .  *  /'  In  defense  of  his  characterization  of  Miss  Bromly,  which 
Ebenezer  questioned,  the  innkeeper  reaffirmed  his  conviction  that  she  was 
the  fugitive  prostitute  from  Maiden.  The  poet  did  not  insist  the  contrary, 
both  because  he  wished  not  to>  alienate  the  innkeeper  and  because  he  was 


[684]  ™E  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

suddenly  struck  by  an  alarming  notion:  could  it  be  that  the  so-called  Church 
Creek  Virgin  was  not  really  Miss  Bromly  at  all,  but  poor  Joan  Toast?  Noth- 
ing seemed  to  rule  out  this  possibility— as  far  as  he  could  judge,  for  example, 
no  one  who  knew  Joan  Toast  had  seen  the  unhappy  Mrs.  Rumbly,  and 
Miss  Bromly' s  name  might  well  have  been  familiar  to  Joan.  Moreover, 
certain  features  of  the  story  definitely  argued  for  the  notion:  the  girl's 
competent  defense  of  her  chastity  (had  not  Joan,  on  the  night  he  aban- 
doned her,  proposed  a  life  of  mutual  celibacy  in  London?},  her  general 
independence  and  toughness  of  spirit  (which  surely  did  not  suggest  the 
demure  Miss  Bromly),  her  understandable  confusion  of  Billy  Rumbly  with 
Henry  Burlingame,  and,  alas,  even  her  final  succumbing  to  abduction  by 
an  Indian.  But  perhaps  the  most  revealing  detail  of  all  was  that  hysterical 
moment  when  "Miss  Bromly"  had  insisted  that  her  name  was  Anna  Cooke: 
Ebenezer's  previous  explanation  of  this  incident  (that  in  an  access  of  terror 
Miss  Bromly  had  turned  desperately  for  refuge  to  a  mistaken  impression 
of  his  influence  in  the  Province)  now  seemed  to  him  quite  unsatisfactory; 
but  that  Joan,  driven  mad  with  despair,  should  identify  herself  not  only  in 
the  tavern  but  in  her  own  mind  with  the  person  whose  ring  she  wore,  the 
person  of  whom  she  could  very  probably  have  learned  to  be  supremely 
jealous— this  struck  him  with  a  force  like  that  of  certainty,  and  his  conscience 
groaned  at  the  blow. 

But  his  immediate  objective,  however  trifling  by  comparison,  made  it 
necessary  to  postpone  these  reflections.  He  changed  his  mind  about  reveal- 
ing his  true  identity  and  came  to  his  point  by  a  different  route.  "  Tis  not 
really  Eben  Cooke  I  am  concerned  with;  I  merely  wished  to  test  whether 
thou'rt  a  man  of  the  world,  so  to  speak.  Now  I  am  a  stranger  to  this  province, 
friend,  but  'tis  said  a  bachelor  need  no  more  sleep  alone  here  than  in 
London,  thanks  to  a  string  of  gay  establishments  like  Maiden.  Tis  only 
natural  a  man  should  wonder  whether  a  genial  house  such  as  this  .  .  ? 

He  allowed  the  innkeeper  to  complete  the  clause;  the  fellow's  eyes  were 
merry,  but  he  shook  his  head. 

"Nay,  worse  luck,  Sir  Benjamin;  old  Sir  Harry  ne'er  durst  make  a  regular 
stews  o'  the  place  for  fear  some  clever  Jack  might  roger  Henrietta  for  a 
whore.  She  was  obliged  to  work  here»  don't  ye  know,  whene'er  Sir  Harry 
did." 

"So  I  understand."  The  poet  reluctantly  abandoned  his  theory— some- 
what  relieved,  however,  that  the  inn  was  not  really  a  brothel,  for  he  scarcely 
knew  how  he  would  have  retreated  otherwise  from  his  inquiry. 

"All  the  same,  I'd  not  have  ye  think  there's  no  sport  to  be  had  in  Church 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [685] 

Creek/'  the  innkeeper  continued.  "How  would  it  strike  ye  if  I  should  say 
that  the  lady  ye  must  apply  to  is  the  selfsame  lady  ye  rode  in  with  this  noon?" 

"Nay!" 

"I  swear't!"  The  innkeeper  beamed  triumphantly.  "Her  name  is  Mary 
Mungummory,  the  Traveling  Whore  o'  Dorset—she's  but  the  Mother 
Superior  now,  ye  understand—and  I'll  wager  the  price  of  admission  she 
can  find  some  manner  o* Hi,  there!  Speak  of  the  devil!" 

Ebenezer  followed  the  man's  eyes  and  saw  that  Mary  had  just  entered 
the  room  and  was  looking  worriedly  about.  He  caught  her  eye,  and  as  she 
approached  his  table  the  innkeeper  excused  himself,  saluted  her  cordially, 
and  declared  with  a  wink  that  Sir  Benjamin  had  business  to  discuss  with 
her. 

"I  feigned  to  mistake  this  inn  for  a  brothel,"  Ebenezer  explained  as  soon 
as  they  were  able  to  talk,  and  told  her  briefly  of  his  hypothesis  and  its 
failure. 

"I  might  have  spared  ye  that  fiction,  had  ye  asked  me,"  Mary  said.  "I 
vow,  Mr.  Cooke,  I  don't  know  what  hath  possessed  poor  Roxiel" 

"Is  she  worse,  then?" 

"She  is  cousin-german  to  a  Bedlamite!"  The  miller  himself,  she  went  on 
to  say,  was  no  better  or  worse  than  before,  but  Mrs.  Russecks,  so  far  from 
regaining  her  composure  after  Ebenezer's  departure,  had  grown  steadily 
more  distracted  and  unreasonable:  she  fell  by  turn  into  fits  of  cursing, 
weeping,  and  apathy;  Mary's  attempts  to  divert  her  with  stories  of  Henry 
Burlingamc  and  Billy  Rumbly  had  only  provoked  fresh  outbursts;  Henrietta 
herself  had  been  screamed  at  and  banished  from  the  chamber. 

"Methinks  'twas  not  your  name  that  set  her  off,"  Mary  asserted,  "else 
why  would  she  treat  Henrietta  as  harshly  as  she  treated  you?  I'faith,  she 
ne'er  laid  eyes  upon  ye  till  today,  and  albeit  she'd  heard  your  name—as 
hath  many  another  Marylander— she  had  ne'er  mentioned  it  once  to  me, 
that  she  was  wont  to  share  her  priviest  affairs  with.  What's  more,  she  seems 
as  wroth  with  herself  as  with  any  soul  else;  she  tears  her  hair,  and  rakes 
her  cheeks,  and  curses  the  day  of  her  birth!  Nay,  Mr.  Cooke,  I  am  more 
persuaded  than  ever  'tis  the  shock  o*  the  day's  events  hath  fair  unhinged 
her,  naught  more  mysterious;  but  I  fear  this  night  she'll  fling  away  the  pins 
and  ne'er  hinge  back." 

Ebenezer  was  not  convinced,  but  he  could  offer  no  more  plausible 
hypothesis.  He  called  for  two  glasses  of  beer,  and  when  Mary  had  finished 
relating  her  news  to  the  other  patrons,  he  told  her  of  his  firm  belief  that 
the  Church  Creek  Virgin  was  in  fact  Joan  Toast,  and  reviewed  the  evi- 


[  686  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

dence  supporting  it.  She  scoffed  at  the  notion  at  first,  then  listened  in 
amazement,  perplexity,  and  mounting  concern. 

"There's  naught  I  can  say  to  rebut  ye,"  she  admitted  finally,  "albeit  I 
can't  see  why  she  pitched  on  the  name  Meg  Brandy.  Still,  'tis  as  good  as 
another,  I  daresay." 

"I  am  convinced  'tis  she!"  the  poet  declared,  and  tears  started  in  his 
eyes.  "  'Sheart,  Mary,  what  miseries  have  I  not  brought  on  that  girl?  De- 
stroyed by  opium,  ravaged  by  pox,  raped,  abused,  abandoned—and  brought 
now  to  the  state  of  brutest  salvageiy!  Would  God  I  might  fly  to  her  this 
night  and  beg  for  retribution!  Would  Heav'n n 

An  expression  of  horror  on  Mary's  face  arrested  him;  looking  beyond 
him  while  he  spoke  as  had  the  innkeeper,  she  too  had  seen  someone  come 
in,  and  her  reaction  was  as  frightening  to  behold  as  Mrs,  Russecks's, 
Ebenezer's  flesh  crawled  in  sympathy. 

"Is't  Harry  Russecks?"  he  whispered. 

"Dear  Christ!"  moaned  Mary,  and,  expecting  the  worst,  Ebenezer  turned 
to  see  for  himself.  The  new  arrival  was  not  Hany  Russecks,  but  a  slight 
statured  gentleman  whom  the  other  patrons  rose  to  greet.  The  poet's  heart 
sprang  up;  he  moved  his  mouth  to  call  "HewyJ"  and  realized  just  in  time 
to  check  himself  that  this  man  was  not  the  "Nicholas  Lowe**  Burlingame 
but  the  Burlingame  of  St.  Giles,  grown  fifteen  years  older  and  tanned  by 
the  Maryland  sun:  that  is  to  say,  not  Burlingame  at  all ,  .  . 

"  Tis  my  sweet  Charley  Mattassin  come  from  the  dead!'*  Maty  cried 
aloud. 

"Nay,  Mary,"  Ebenezer  whispered.  "Tis  Billy  Rumbly!" 

Everyone  in  the  room  was  startled  by  the  outburst-  Rumbly  himself  broke 
off  his  salutions  and  looked  over  with  a  puzzled  smile*  Two  of  his  friends 
murmured  something,  perhaps  apologies,  but  he  ignored  them  and  came 
towards  the  poet's  table,  where,  still  smiling,  he  bowed  slightly  to  Ebenezer 
and  addressed  the  ashen-faced  woman. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  madam,  but  I  must  know  whether  you  did  not  speak 
the  name  Chen-ley  Mattassin  just  then."  His  voice,  Ebenezer  observed,  was 
of  the  same  timbre  as  Burlingame's,  but  the  accent  was  more  continental 
than  English.  This,  together  with  his  flawless  dress,  coppered  skin,  and 
punctilious  demeanor,  did  indeed  give  him  the  air  of  a  foreign  prince  in 
mufti— which  in  fact,  the  poet  reminded  himself,  he  was* 

"Thou'rt  the  breathing  image  or  thy  brother!"  Mary  replied,  and  began  to 
weep  unashamedly.  The  other  patrons  came  over  to  see  what  was  the 
trouble;  Billy  Rumbly  politely  requested  that  they  permit  him  to  learn  for 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  687  ] 

himself,  promising  to  satisfy  their  curiosity  as  soon  as  he  could,  and  they 
retired, 

"May  I  sit  down  with  you,  sir?  I  thank  you.  Now,  my  dear  lady " 

"Pray  let  me  explain,  sir,"  Ebenezer  ventured.  "Tis  a  most  happy 
coincidence  that  brought  you  hither  tonight!" 

"I  quite  agree/*  said  Billy  Rumbly.  "As  for  explanation,  there  may  be  no 
call  for  one:  my  dear  lady,  can  it  be  thou'rt  Miss  Mary  Mungummory?" 

Mary's  astonishment  was  followed  immediately  by  apprehension.  "Now, 
Mr.  Rumbly,  ye  mustn't  think  hard  o'  me;  I  swear " 

"That  you  had  naught  to  do  with  Mattassinemarough's  death?  Let  me 
swear,  Miss  Mungummory,  that  none  save  Mattassin  had  aught  to  do  with 
Mattassin's  death.  He  destroyed  himself— I  can  quite  appreciate  that  fact 
—and  for  all  his  fits  of  contrary  passion,  I  know  he  died  with  your  image 
in  his  heart/'  He  smiled.  "But  say,  how  is't  you  knew  I  was  his  brother? 
Merely  by  reason  of  a  certain  likeness  betwixt  us?" 

Mary  was  still  too  taken  aback  to  muster  a  coherent  answer,  and  so 
Ebenezer  declared,  "We've  heard  the  tale  of  your  adventures  from  the 
trapper  Harvey  Russecks,  sir " 

"Ah,  dear  Harveyl  A  consummate  gentleman!  Then  thou'rt  aware  I  was 
formerly  called  Cohunkowprets,  the  Bill-of-the-Goose;  yet  that  doth  not 
quite  account  for  all"  . 

"My  business  will  explain  the  rest/'  Ebenezer  said.  "I  am  in  Church 
Creek  expressly  to  deliver  you  a  message  from  the  Tayac  Chicamec/' 

For  the  first  time,  Billy  Rumbly's  composure  was  ruffled:  his  brow  con- 
tracted, and  his  eyes  flashed  in  a  way  that  chilled  the  poet's  blood,  so  often 
had  he  seen  that  angry  flash  in  Burlingame's  eyes.  He  felt  exactly  as  he 
imagined  one  might  feel  who  had  annoyed  some  emperor  of  the  East. 

"The  Tayac  Chicamec  hath  no  messages  that  I  care  to  hear/'  he  said 
dangerously. 

"Haply  not,  sir/'  the  poet  granted  at  once,  "yet  I  must  tell  you  that  as 
a  gentleman  you  cannot  refuse  to  hear  me:  I  swear  to  you  that  the  lives  of 
every  man,  woman,  and  child  of  this  province  are  in  your  hands!" 

Billy  Rumbly  fixed  his  attention  on  the  glass  of  beer  brought  to  him  by 
the  innkeeper;  his  anger  seemed  to  have  hardened  into  stubbornness. 

"You  speak  of  the  coming  war.  I  do  not  think  of  it/' 

Ebenezer  had  anticipated  this  difficulty  and  was  not  unprepared  to  deal 
with  it.  He  sighed  as  though  resigned  to  the  Indian's  obduracy.  "Very  well, 
sir,  I  shan't  trespass  farther  on  your  good  nature,  I  only  hope  my  friend- 


[688]  TEE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

ship  with  your  brother  Burlingame  will  make  him  less  unreasonable  than 

you." 

The  remark  had  its  intended  effect:  Billy  grabbed  his  hand  and  stared 
open-mouthed  at  him,  as  if  scarcely  daring  to  believe  his  ears. 
"What  cruel  stratagem  of  my  father's  is  this?" 

"The  strategem  is  mine,  sir,  to  persuade  you  to  hear  me  out  on  a  number 
of  urgent  matters;  but  what  I  said  is  nonetheless  true.  As  'twas  my  pleasure 
to  inform  the  Tayac  Chicamec,  your  younger  brother,  Henry  Burlingame 
Third,  is  neither  dead  nor  lost;  he  was  my  tutor  in  England  for  six  years 
and  at  present  is  not  many  miles  from  this  spot"  Despite  his  fear  of 
alienating  the  man,  who  rather  intimidated  him  as  well,  his  terrific  re- 
sponsibilities caused  Ebenezer  suddenly  to  lose  patience.  "Damn  you,  sir, 
put  by  your  skepticism;  'tis  mankind's  side  I'm  on,  not  Chicamec's!  Do  you 
know  this  ring?  Aye,  'tis  the  ring  of  Quassapelagh,  that  he  gave  me  for 
saving  his  life  whilst  he  was  hiding  in  the  cliffs.  Ah,  you've  heard  that  tale 
before?  Then  you  know  that  the  wight  I  left  to  serve  him  also  owed  his 
life  to  me— a  trussed-up  Negro  slave  named  Drepacca,  that  I  believe  hath 
been  a  friend  of  yours!  Do  you  think  I'll  beg  you  to  save  my  companions' 
lives  by  leading  that  monstrous  rebellion?  I  come  here  with  a  plan,  sir,  not 
a  plea;  a  plan  to  save  both  English  and  Ahatchwhoops!"  He  paused  to 
regain  his  self-control  and  concluded  in  a  calmer  tone,  **What's  more,  I 
wish  to  speak  with  you  as  one  gentleman  to  another  with  regard  to  your 
wife,  who  I  have  reason  to  believe  is  a  woman  very  precious  to  me,  and  if 
after  all  this  you  need  still  more  evidence  of  my  good  intention,  know  that 
we  may  speak  here  at  length  without  fear  of  interruption  by  your  enemy 
the  miller  Russecks:  he  is  lying  this  moment  at  death's  doorsill  after  a  bout 
with  me  and  my  companion  this  afternoon." 

Billy  Rumbly  was  flabbergasted  by  this  catalogue  of  marvels.  "Great 
Heavens,  sir,  you  leave  me  breathlessl  My  father,  my  wife,  my  long-lost 
brother— thou'rt  setting  my  world  a-spin!"  He  laughed.  "  Tis  clear  I  mis- 
apprehended you,  and  I  humbly  beg  your  pardon,  Mr. " 

"Cooke;  Ebenezer  Cooke,  of  Maiden."  The  poet  was  relieved  to  observe 
that  the  name  apparently  meant  nothing  to  Billy  Rumbly. 

"Mr.  Cooke,  sir."  The  Indian  shook  his  hand  warmly,  "May  I  say  at  the 
outset,  Mr.  Cooke,  that  gossip  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding,  my  wife  is 
as  dear  to  me  as  you  declare  she  is  to  you,  and  her  condition  (which  I 
gather  thou'rt  aware  of)  is  a  matter  of  gravest  concern  to  me*  In  fact,  'twas 
to  seek  advice  from  Mrs.  Russecks  on  that  subject  I  drove  hither  this  eve- 
ning—for which  praise  God!" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  689  ] 

Mary,  having  by  this  time  got  the  better  of  her  emotions,  explained  that 
Mrs.  Russecks  was  indisposed  as  a  result  of  the  afternoon's  contretemps, 
the  details  of  which  could  better  be  saved  for  another  occasion,  and  excused 
herself  to  return  to  the  patient's  bedside. 

"If  ye  still  mean  to  call  on  Mrs.  Rumbly,"  she  said  to  Ebenezer,  "we'll 
ride  out  first  thing  in  the  morning." 

"Nay,"  Billy  Rumbly  protested,  "you  must  be  my  guest  tonight,  sir,  and 
tell  me  these  wonders  at  your  leisure;  I  shan't  have  it  otherwise!  And  you, 
Miss  Mungummory,  if  you  really  must  go  now,  take  my  sympathies  and 
regards  to  Mrs.  Russecks  and  tell  her  I'll  consult  her  another  time;  but  you 
and  I  must  speak  together  very  soon  about  Mattassin— tomorrow,  perhaps? 
I've  much  to  ask  and  much  to  tell!" 

Almost  too  carried  away  to  speak,  Mary  managed  some  sort  of  acknowl- 
edgment and  left  the  inn.  Billy  watched  her  intently  until  she  was  gone 
and  then  shook  his  head. 

•"Til  wager  she  was  beautiful  once!  And  even  now,  despite  all—I  don't 
presume  to  understand  her,  Mr.  Cooke,  but  I  quite  understand  my  brother, 
I  believe."  He  turned  to  the  poet  \vith  a  smile.  "Now,  sir,  what  say  you? 
If  your  business  with  regard  to  my  wife  is  not  to  duel  for  her  affections, 
let's  set  out  at  once  for  Tobacco  Stick  Bay;  'tis  but  four  miles  down  the 
road,  and  I've  a  fair  team  to  fetch  us.  Astonishing,  this  business  about  my 
brother!" 

Ebenezer  was  altogether  charmed*  He  had  not  suspected  how  deep  was 
his  anxiety  at  the  prospect  of  encountering  Billy  Rumbly  until  now,  when 
the  man's  amiability  removed  it.  It  was  like  meeting  Henry  Burlingame 
again  after  a  long  and  discouraging  separation— but  a  Burlmgame  whose 
formidability  was  not  ambivalent;  whose  benevolence  was  unequivocal;  in 
short,  the  gay,  efficient  Burlingame  who  had  come  to  his  rescue  once  in 
Magdalene  College.  There  still  remained  the  task  of  inducing  him  to  save 
Bertrand  and  Captain  Cairn,  and  the  rather  more  ticklish  problem  of  what 
to  do  about  Joan  Toast;  but  in  the  presence  of  Billy  Rumbly— his  princely 
animation,  his  mannered  power— Ebenezer  could  not  feel  pessimistic,  much 
less  despairing.  On  the  contrary,  his  flagging  spirits  soared;  his  face  grew 
flushed  with  the  ardor  of  gratitude,  the  warmth  of  reciprocal  good  feeling; 
he  felt,  what  he  had  felt  of  no  man  before,  that  he  could  embrace  this 
Billy  Rumbly  as  a  maiden  her  rescuer— which  feeling,  in  the  light  of  certain 
shocking  declarations  of  Henry's,  made  him  blush  all  the  more  alarmingly 

He  assented  to  the  proposal  While  he  donned  his  greatcoat,  Bjlly  Rumblj 
(who  had  never  removed  his  own),  declared  to  the  house  that  Mis: 


[690]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Mungummory's  earlier  commotion  had  been  due  to  a  simple  case  of  mis- 
taken identity:  she  had  taken  him  for  his  late  brother,  Charley  Mattassin, 
the  misguided  fellow  who  had  been  hanged  for  the  murder  of  Mynheer 
Wilhelm  Tick  and  family.  Ebenezer  was  surprised  at  the  man's  candor,  but 
Billy  apparently  knew  his  audience:  although  the  revelation  shocked  them, 
their  murmurs  seemed  commiserative  rather  than  hostile. 

"Now,"  Billy  cried,  "having  blessed  your  wives  with  some  gossip,  let  me 
bless  you  gentlemen  with  a  dram!"  When  the  drinks  were  distributed  among 
the  admiring  patrons,  he  purchased  in  addition  a  "rundlet  for  the  wagon," 
declaring  that  the  day  Sir  Harry  Russecks  broke  his  head  must  not  go  un- 
celebrated. This  sentiment  was  affirmed  with  loud  hurrahs,  and  when  the 
two  men  made  their  good  nights  and  mounted  Billy's  wagon,  Ebenezer 
could  not  but  thrill  at  the  knowledge  that  he  was  envied  by  everyone  in  the 
tavern. 

They  paused  briefly  at  the  mill,  where  he  introduced  McEvoy  to  the 
object  of  their  mission,  announced  his  current  plans,  and  learned  that  while 
Mrs.  Russecks  had  finally  been  got  to  sleep,  there  was  no  change  whatever 
in  the  miller's  condition;  then  they  set  off  westward  along  a  dark  and  narrow 
path,  actually  no  more  than  parallel  wagon-ruts  through  the  woods.  The 
night  was  frosty  and  still;  through  the  trees  the  poet  spied  the  great 
triangle  of  Deneb,  Vega,  and  Altair,  though  the  constellations  to  which 
they  belonged  were  obstructed  from  view. 

"Our  little  drive  takes  half  an  hour,"  Billy  said.  "If  1  may  isquest  it,  spare 
me  the  message  from  my  father  till  later,  as  I  can  estimate  its  substance 
out  of  hand.  But  I  must  hear  about  this  gentleman  who  claims  to  be  my 
brother,  and  methinks  'twere  better  we  spoke  our  minds  on  the  subject  of 
my  wife  ere  we  arrive.  Yet,  stay:  we  durst  not  essay  these  weighty  matters 
with  dry  throats;  the  first  thing  to  do  is  take  Lady  Rundlet's  maidenhead!" 

"Marry,"  Ebenezer  laughed,  "thou'rt  more  a  twin  than  a  common  brother 
to  Henry  Burlingame!  How  oft  have  I  burned  to  hear  some  news  he  had 
for  me,  or  tell  him  news  of  my  own,  and  been  obliged  to  sit  through  a 
whole  chine  of  pork  ere  he'd  give  me  satisfaction!" 

They  sampled  the  rundlet,  and  the  good  white  Jamaica  scalded  the  poet's 
innards  most  gratifyingly.  Both  the  Indian  and  himself  had  availed  them- 
selves of  lap  robes,  which,  together  with  the  ruin  and  the  absence  of  wind, 
kept  them  as  comfortable  as  if  the  month  were  April  instead  of  latest 
December.  The  team  stepped  leisurely  in  the  frozen  path,  blowing  twin 
clouds  of  steam  at  their  chests,  and  the  wagonwheels  creaked  and  crunched 
with  a  pleasing  sharpness,  Ebenezer  permitted  his  body  to  rock  with  the 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  69!  ] 

motion  of  the  springs;  the  task  of  relating  once  again  the  story  of  Burlin- 
game's  quest  and  his  own  intricate  history  had  previously  appalled  him, 
but  in  these  circumstances  it  seemed  a  pleasant  labor.  He  sighed  as  he 
commenced,  but  it  was  the  sigh  of  a  man  certain  that  his  story  will  give  its 
bearers  unusual  pleasure.  Making  no  mention  of.  his  doubts,  reservations, 
disappointments,  and  astonishments,  he  told  of  Burlingame's  rescue  by 
Captain  Salmon;  his  boyhood  as  sailorman,  gypsy  minstrel,  and  Cambridge 
scholar;  his  tenure  at  St.  Giles  in  the  Fields  and  the  twins'  affection  for 
him;  his  adventures  in  the  provinces  as  political  agent  and  unwilling  pirate; 
his  rescue  of  the  Russecks  ladies;  his  vain  endeavors  to  discover  his  parentage; 
and  the  poet's  recent  solution  of  that  mystery. 

"The  question/'  he  asserted  rear  the  end  of  his  relation,  "was  who  came 
'twixt  Sir  Henry  and  Henry  the  Third,  and  how  my  friend  came  to  be  light- 
skinned  as  any  Englishman,  when  neither  Sir  Henry's  Privie  Journa.il  nor 
Captain  John  Smith's  Secret  Historie  referred  to  any  Lady  Burlingame.  E'en 
that  last  installment  of  the  Historie,  that  your  people  call  The  Book  of 
English  Devils,  did  not  resolve  these  questions,  inasmuch  as  any  offspring 
of  Sir  Henry  and  Pokatawertussan  must  needs  be  a  blend  of  English  and 
Ahatchwhoop — as  is  the  Tayac  Chicamec,  in  fact." 

"  Tis  as  much  a  mystery  now  as  erst,  for  all  I  grasp  it,"  Billy  confessed. 
*Tet  I  have  no  doubts  this  fellow  is  in  sooth  my  brother.  Miraculous!" 

"Aye,  and  no  less  so  is  the  chance  that  gave  me  the  key."  He  told  of  his 
visit  with  Burlingame  to  the  Jesuit  Thomas  Smith  in  Talbot  County,  who 
before  being  obliged  to  surrender  his  portion  of  the  Secret  Historie  had 
entertained  them  with  the  tale  of  Father  FitzMaurice.  "When  I  spied 
Father  Joseph's  chests  in  the  house  of  the  Tayac  Chicamec  and  learned  the 
King  had  wed  that  martyr's  offspring,  I  had  the  answer:  'tis  by  decree  of 
the  Law  of  Averages  their  union  should  have  issue  not  alone  like  thyself, 
who  have  the  same  commingled  blood  as  both  thy  parents,  but  also  pure- 
blooded  Indian  and  pure-blooded  English,  in  equal  number.  In  short, 
Mattassin  and  Henry  Burlingame:  the  one  as  much  Ahatchwhoop  as  Pok- 
atawertussan, the  other  no  less  English  than  Sir  Henry."  He  smiled  at  his 
host's  amazement*  "If  thou'rt  surprised,  how  much  more  so  will  Henry  be, 
that  hath  given  up  his  quest  as  fruitless!" 

"What  a  gift  you  have  presented  me!"  Billy  exclaimed  quietly.  "A  brother, 
to  replace  poor  MattassinI  I  am  forever  in  your  debt,  sir!  But  what  is  his 
trade  at  present,  that  hath  plied  so  many  in  the  past,  and  where  might  I 
find  him?  For  I  mean  to  seek  him  out  at  once,  whether  in  Cambridge 
Maryland  or  Cambridge  England/' 


[  692  }  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

With  his  imminent  plea  for  Billy's  assistance  in  mind,  Ebenezer  replied 
that  Burlingame  was  still  very  much  engaged  in  provincial  politics  as  an 
agent  for  Lord  Baltimore,  in  whose  service  he  had  jeopardized  his  life  time 
and  again  for  the  cause  of  justice.  It  was  difficult  to  praise  as  anti-revolution- 
ary a  man  who  had  lately  changed  allegiance  to  John  Coode  (and  who  for 
all  Ebenezer  knew  might  be  the  arch-rebel  and  insurrectionist  himself),  but 
the  poet  reasoned  that  Billy  Rumbly  would  be  more  likely  to  assent  to  a 
plan  of  which  he  believed  his  long-lost  brother  would  passionately  approve. 

"As  to  where  he  is  now,  I  am  not  certain,  for  his  home  is  where'er  the 
cause  of  civilization  leads  him.  But  my  desire  to  find  him  is  no  less  urgent 
than  your  own,  for  I  know  well  he'd  gamble  his  life  to  prevent  a  massacre." 
Here,  though  he  had  promised  to  save  the  story,  he  could  not  resist  telling 
of  the  perilous  circumstances  under  which  he  had  learned  about  the  coming 
attack,  and  of  Chicamec's  ransom  terms  for  Bertrand  and  the  aged  sea 
captain.  "He  wants  a  son  with  the  power  of  Quassapelagh  and  Drepacca  to 
lead  the  Ahatchwhoops  in  the  insurrection.  My  prayer  is  that  you  or  Heniy, 
if  not  the  twain  of  you,  will  deceive  him  in  the  name  of  peace  and  good 
will;  take  your  place  as  King  of  the  Ahatchwhoops  and  use  your  influence 
for  the  good  of  red  man,  black  man,  and  white  man  alike.  Twere  not 
beyond  question,  methinks,  if  only  you " 

"Ah,  sir,  your  pledge,  your  pledge!"  Billy  held  up  his  hand  and  pretended 
to  scold,  but  it  seemed  to  Ebenezer  that  the  digression  had  served  its 
purpose.  "Let  us  proceed  to  the  subject  of  my  wife.  Before  you  speak  your 
business,  may  I  assume  thou'rt  acquainted  with  the  story  of  our-— courtship?'* 

"Aye,  from  Harvey  Russecks  and  from  Mary  Mungummory,  who  had  it 
from  Sir  Harry's  wife." 

"Both  excellent  sources,  Then  you  doubtless  know  I  share  your  alarm  at 
Miss  Bromly's  self-imposed  degradation.  I  am  not  yet  either  a  Christian  or 
a  legal  denizen  of  the  Province,  sir,  and  thus  cannot  properly  many  her  as  I 
wish  to.  But  she  would  have  none  oft  e'en  were't  possible;  she  wishes  no 
more  than  the  simple  Ahatchwhoop  rite  I  performs—the  which  neither  I 
nor  the  laws  of  Maryland  honor  where  one  of  the  parties  is  English." 

"Then  in  reality  she  is  not  your  wife  at  all,  save  in  the  spirit  of  Common 
Law?" 

Billy  acknowledged  that  this  was  unhappily  the  case,  and  confiimed 
Harvey  Russecks's  report  that  Miss  Bromly  was  in  no  way  the  victim  of 
coercion.  "I  freely  own,  what  you  know  already,  that  I  was  prepared  to 
ravish  and  abduct  her  after  the  old  Ahatchwhoop  manner  I  hid  in  the 
woods  near  Sir  Harry's  mill  and  brought  her  to  the  window  by  means  of 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  693  ] 

certain  noises,  whereupon  I  revealed  myself  to  her  sight.  The  object  of  all 
this  is  to  terrify  the  victim,  but  so  far  from  swooning  away,  Miss  Bromly 
came  out  to  me  alone,  and  when  I  offered  to  attack  her— ah  well,  'tis  enough 
to  swear  no  attack  was  necessary:  she  came  with  me  of  her  own  choosing 
and  of  her  own  choosing  remains.  Moreover,  for  all  my  pressing  her  to  live 
like  a  proper  gentlewoman,  she  hath  transformed  herself  into  a  salvage- 
nay,  worse:  into  a  brute,  that  neither  speaks  nor  grooms  itself!  You  have 
heard  tales  that  I  torture  her  over  the  fire?  I  swear  to  you  that  I  would  not 
willingly  harm  a  hair  of  her  head,  but  she  hath  learned  somewhere  that 
Indian  husbands  are  wont  to  truss  a  shrewish  wife  near  a  green-wood  fire, 
to  cure  their  ill  temper,  and  she  obliges  me  to  rope  and  smoke  her  in  like 
manner  above  the  hearth," 

Ebenezer  clucked  his  tongue.  "Alas,  poor  woman!" 

Billy  regarded  him  carefully  and  gave  the  reins  a  little  snap.  "  Tis  with 
reason  I  tell  you  these  things,  my  friend,  I  would  imagine  there  hath  been 
some  adverse  sentiment  regarding  Miss  Brornly  and  myself;  for  aught  I 
know,  despite  your  cordial  air  you  may  be  her  brother  or  her  betrothed, 
come  to  take  revenge  for  her  abduction— she  tells  me  naught  of  her  former 
life  or  past  connections."  He  did  not  mean  to  suggest,  he  went  on  to  say, 
that  he  was  devoid  of  responsibility  in  the  affair:  whatever  Miss  Bromly's 
past,  it  was  he  who  had  in  ignorance  assaulted  her  in  Russecks's  tavern  and 
set  out  deliberately  to  ravish  her  afterwards;  it  was  not  impossible  that  her 
current  state  was  a  deranged  one  caused  by  the  shock  of  his  attacks.  How- 
ever, he  dearly  loved  her  and  wished  her  well,  and  was  willing  to  do  anything 
to  improve  her  condition  or  otherwise  discharge  his  responsibility. 

So  disarmed  was  Ebenezer  by  the  man's  frank  and  friendly  attitude  that, 
though  the  thought  of  Joan's  degradation  stung  him  to  tears,  he  could  not 
muster  anger  against  her  abductor,  "More  virtuous  men  than  I  may  call 
you  to  account/'  he  said  instead.  "Only  tell  me  this:  doth  the  girl  wear  any 
sort  of  ring?" 

"A  ring?  Aye,  she  hath  one,  that  she  kisses  and  curses  by  turns  but  will 
not  speak  of.  Tis  a  silver  seal  of  sorts:  methinks  'twas  designed  to  fend  off 
evil  spirits,  for  it  hath  the  word  ban  or  bane  around  the  seal:  B-A-N-N-E," 

For  a  moment  Ebenezer  was  puzzled:  then  he  recognized  the  anagram 
on  Anne  B.  Billy  had  merely  begun  with  the  wrong  letter.  "Ah  God,  'tis  as 
I  feared!  I  am  more  than  the  girl's  betrothed,  Mr.  Rumbly;  I  am  her  hus- 
band, and  I  came  hither,  among  other  reasons,  to  save  her  from  your 
clutches!  Howbeit,  I  am  persuaded  thou'rt  even  less  to  blame  than  you 


[  694  I  T™  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

imagine:  'tis  I,  above  all  others,  who  am  responsible  for  Joan  Toast's  sorry 
state— that  is  her  true  name,  not  Meg  Bromly,  and  if  you  truly  love  and 
pity  her,  'tis  you  should  punish  me,  not  vice  versa."  His  former  sense  of 
well-being  entirely  flown,  he  apprised  Billy  of  the  history  of  his  relation- 
ship with  Joan  Toast  and  his  crowning  injustice  to  her,  to  which  he  attrib- 
uted her  flight  from  Maiden  and  her  current  distracted  state. 

The  Indian  attended  with  great  interest  and  sympathy.  "You  must  for- 
give me  if  this  question  is  improper,  sir,"  he  said,  when  the  poet  was 
finished.  "I  believe  I  understood  you  to  say  that  albeit  you  married  the 
woman  thou'rt  yet  a  virgin,  did  I  not?  Remarkable!  And  yet  methinks  you 
implied  that  Miss  Toast,  or  Mrs.  Cooke— how  doth  a  gentleman  say  it?— 
that  you  are  perhaps  not  the  only  man  who  hath  enjoyed  her  companion- 
ship, and  that  some  others,  let  us  say,  were  not  so  tender  of  her  honor  as 
were  you  ...  Is  that  correct,  or  have  I  misconstrued  your  words?" 

Ebenezer  smiled.  "No  need  to  step  lightly,  sir.  In  London  she  was  a 
whore,  albeit  an  uncommon  principled  one;  'twas  as  a  whore  she  sailed  to 
Maryland,  on  a  whore-ship,  and  was  raped  by  a  horrendous  Moorish  giant; 
and  'twas  as  a  whore  she  spent  her  nights  in  the  Maiden  curing-house, 
poxing  six-  or  eight-score  Indians  every  month!  Tis  safe  to  say  she's  no 
more  a  virgin  than  was  your  brother's  Miss  Mungummory/' 

"I  see,"  Billy  murmured,  but  his  frown  suggested  that  he  was  not  alto- 
gether satisfied  on  the  matter.  "And  of  course  thou'rt  quite  certain  of  these 
things?" 

The  poet  could  not  suppress  a  certain  grim  amusement*  "Belike  thou'rt 
new  to  the  ways  of  cultivated  ladies,  sir:  a  clever  tart  may  whore  herself 
to  the  very  gate  of  Hell  and  then  sell  Lucifer  first  go  at  her  maidenhead. 
It  happens  every  day  in  London." 

"Indeed.  And  yet  the  ring  seems  certain  proof  .  .  ."  He  allowed  the 
sentence  to  trail  off  in  vague  perplexity.  "Hi,  here's  an  end  to  speculation: 
yonder  stands  my  cabin." 

The  path  had  brought  them  out  of  the  woods  into  a  sizeable  cleared 
field  bounded  on  the  north  by  a  narrow  bay.  On  the  near  end  of  the  water- 
front stood  a  cabin,  dimly  lit,  and  several  outbuildings.  As  they  stabled  the 
team  and  approached  the  house,  Ebenezer  grew  increasingly  nervous  at  the 
prospect  of  confronting  Joan  Toast;  the  most  honorable  course,  he  decided, 
was  simply  to  present  himself,  humbly  and  without  excuse,  and  leave  the 
first  reaction  to  her— whether  it  be  murder,  tears,  or  apathy—before  ventur- 
ing any  sort  of  explanation* 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  695  ] 

At  the  doorstep  Billy  Rumbly  stopped  and  laid  a  hand  on  the  poet's 
shoulder,  "Let  us  quite  understand  each  other,  my  friend:  is  it  your  intention 
to  take  my — that  is,  your  wife,  I  suppose— is  it  your  intention  to  take  her 
from  me  for  her  own  good?" 

'That  is  my  intention/'  Ebenezer  admitted. 

"By  force,  if  need  be?" 

"I  am  neither  armed  nor  inclined  to  violence,  sir;  my  only  weapon  is 
persuasion,  and  'tis  not  likely  she'll  even  listen  to  me.  Nor  are  you  obliged 
to  invite  me  in,  under  the  circumstances;  I'll  not  bring  suit." 

Billy  chuckled.  "Thou'rt  a  noble  fellow!  Very  well,  then,  since  we  both 
love  the  woman  and  both  feel  answerable  for  her  condition,  let  us  both  put 
her  improvement  above  all  personal  considerations:  we  will  put  our  sepa- 
rate cases  and  leave  the  choice  to  her.  Belike  she'll  wash  her  hands  of  the 
twain  of  us!" 

Ebenezer  agreed,  charmed  anew  by  the  civilization  his  host  had  acquired 
in  so  short  time,  and  they  entered  the  cabin,  A  single  candle  flickered  near 
the  door,  and  on  the  hearth  the  fire  had  burned  to  its  last  few  coals. 
Ebenezer  glanced  around  in  vain  for  Joan  Toast;  the  room  was  obscure  and 
cold. 

"Yehawkangrenepof  Billy  called,  and  explained  in  an  undertone,  "She 
obliges  me  to  call  her  by  that  name.  Yehawkangrenepo!" 

Now  came  a  grunting  and  stirring  from  a  straight-backed  wooden  bench 
before  the  fire;  a  woman  sat  up,  her  back  to  the  door,  and  commenced 
rubbing  her  eyes  and  scratching  in  her  wild  dark  hair.  Her  condition  had 
indeed  deteriorated:  her  shift  was  ragged,  filthy  stuff,  and  she  grunted  and 
scratched  about  her  person  like  a  jackanapes  picking  fleas.  Ebenezer  felt 
faint  at  the  wretched  spectacle;  he  perspired,  and  his  courage  faltered.  Then 
the  creature  scratched  her  head  again,  rising  from  the  bench  as  she  did  so, 
and  the  candle  glinted  briefly  from  her  silver  ring.  The  flash  was  barely 
perceptible,  but  it  blinded  the  poet  altogether  to  his  resolve.  He  ran  to  throw 
himself  at  her  feet. 

"Joan  Toastl  Ah  Christ,  how  I  have  wronged  thee!" 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  the  girl  gasped;  at  sight  of  him  lunging  toward 
her  she  screamed  and  caught  at  the  bench-back  for  support.  And  then  it  was 
Ebenezer's  turn  to  moan  and  stumble,  for  despite  her  changed  appearance, 
the  flickering  candlelight,  and  the  tears  that  made  his  vision  swim,  he  knew 
immediately  when  she  turned  that  Billy  Rumbly's  mistress  was  neither  Joan 
Toast  nor  Miss  Meg  Bromly,  but  his  sister  Anna. 


16:    A  SWEEPING  GENERALIZATION  IS  PROPOSED 
REGARDING  THE  CONSERVATION  OF  CULTURAL 
ENERGY,  AND  DEMONSTRATED  WITH  THE  AID  OF 
RHETORIC  AND  INADVERTENCE 


WHETHER  FROM  DESUETUDE  OR  ACCESS  OF  SURPRISE,  AFTER  HER  INITIAL 

scream  Anna's  voice  quite  failed  her.  Brother  and  sister  embraced  in  vast, 
unself-conscious  relief  at  having  found  each  other  again,  but  even  as 
Ebenezer  comforted  himself  with  her  name  and  explained  to  bewildered 
Billy  Rumbly,  between  sniffs  and  sobs,  that  she  was  his  twin  sister  and  not 
his  wife,  he  felt  her  stiffen  in  his  arms.  At  once  his  memory  surrendered  to 
the  dreadful  things  he  had  learned  from  Burlingame,  as  well  as  the  story, 
now  newly  appalling,  of  the  Ahatchwhoop  prince's  courtship;  the  embrace 
became  awkward;  he  made  no  effort  to  detain  her  when  she  pushed  free  of 
him  and  collapsed  in  tears  on  the  bench. 

"She  is  in  sooth  your  sister?"  Billy  asked. 

The  poet  nodded. 

"What  about  the  ring?" 

Hot  with  shame,  Ebenezer  explained  that  it  had  been  hers  to  begin  with, 
that  she  had  presented  it  to  him  upon  his  departure  from  London,  and 
that  he  in  turn  had  given  it  to  Joan  Toast,  from  whom  Anna  had  apparently 
retrieved  it  in  some  manner.  "You  must  try  to  understand,"  he  concluded, 
speaking  with  difficulty.  "This  is  a  painful  moment  for  both  of  us  ...  I 
can't  explain  just  yet .  .  ." 

"There  will  be  time,"  Billy  said.  "For  the  present,  my  company  is  burden- 
some to  all;  I  shall  bid  you  adieu  now  and  return  in  time  for  breakfast" 

"Nay!"  Anna  suddenly  found  her  voice,  to  Billy's  surprise,  and  shook  her 
head.  The  tears  had  marked  couises  through  the  dirt  on  her  face.  "This 
man  is  my  husband,"  she  declared  to  Ebenezer. 

"Quite  so/'  the  poet  murmured.  "Tfc  I  must  go" 
^  "I  shan't  allow  it,"  Billy  said  firmly.  "Whatever  the  breach  betwixt  you, 
'tis  a  family  matter  and  must  be  put  right.  In  any  case  I've  meant  for  some 
time  to  sleep  in  the  barn:  I  have  cause  to  believe  a  thief  hath  been  pilfering 
from  it  lately."  The  pretext  was  unconvincing,  but  it  went  unchallenged. 
Billy  laid  his  hand  affectionately  on  Anna's  head  "Prithee  mend  the  family 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  697  ] 

fences  with  forgiveness  and  good  will;  'tis  a  great  pity  for  brother  and  sister 
not  to  love  each  other.  Nay,  raise  up  your  eyes!  And  you,  sir:  I  am  in  your 
debt  already  for  arousing  this  woman  to  speech,  and  more  than  thankful 
for  the  chance  that  hath  enabled  me  to  repay  your  gift  of  a  brother  with  like 
coin.  I  beg  you  only  to  remember  our  agreement,  as  I  shall:  in  the  morning 
you  must  tell  me  the  news  from  Bloodsworth  Island,  and  we  shall  see  what 
is  to  be  done  on  every  head." 

Anna  hung  her  head  and  said  nothing;  Ebenezer  too,  though  embarrassed 
by  his  own  unwillingness  to  protest,  was  so  eager  for  private  conversation 
with  his  sister  that  he  permitted  Billy  to  make  up  the  fire  in  the  cabin  and 
then  leave  for  the  cheerless  barn.  He  scarcely  dared  look  at  Anna;  just  the 
thought  of  her  condition  made  him  weep.  For  awhile  they  sat  on  opposite 
ends  of  the  bench  and  stared  into  the  fire,  occasionally  sniffing  or  wiping 
their  eyes* 

"You  have  been  to  Maiden?*'  he  ventured  at  last.  From  the  corner  of 
his  eye  he  saw  her  shake  her  head  negatively, 

*'I  met  a  Mr.  Spurdance  at  the  wharf  in  Cambridge  .  .  ." 

"Then  you  know  my  disgrace.  And  you  must  have  encountered  .  .  .  my 
wife  there  too,  since  you  have  your  ring  again,"  His  throat  ached;  the  tears 
ran  afresh,  and  he  turned  to  Anna  with  great  emotion.  "I  was  obliged  to 
marry  her  or  perish  of  my  seasoning,  as  our  mother  did;  but  'twas  not  her 
doing,  Anna;  you  mustn't  think  ill  of  her,  Tis  true  she  is  a  whore,  but  she 

followed  me  to  Maryland  out  of  love "  Again  he  faltered,  remembering 

Burlingame's  assertion  that  Anna's  motive  was  the  same,  "Tis  on  my 
account  she  hath  the  pox  and  is  a  slave  to  opium;  she  suffered  unimaginable 
indignities  to  be  with  me,  and  nursed  me  back  to  health  when  I  was  ill,  nor 
made  any  claim  on  me  whatsoe'er-- not  e'en  upon  my  chastity,  I  swear'tl 
Her  one  wish,  when  all  was  lost,  was  that  we  fly  together  to  London  and 
live  as  brother  and  sister  till  her  afflictions  carried  her  off;  to  this  end  she 
gave  me  six  pounds  that ,  ,  .  that  father  had  given  her  across  the  Bay,  not 
knowing  she  was  my  wife,  and .  .  ,  and  went  to  earn  six  more  in  the  curing- 
house,  for  her  own  passage!  And  I,  Anna— I  betrayed  that  saintly  woman 
most  despicably!  I  stole  away  alone;  abandoned  her  to  die  uncared  forl  Tis 
I  you  must  despise,  not  poor  Joan  Toastr 

"Despise?"  Anna  seemed  surprised.  "How  can  I  despise  either  of  you, 
Eben?  Twas  through  deception  you  lost  Maiden,  and  honor  as  well  as 
necessity  required  your  marriage*  I  wish  you  had  not  abandoned  her— 'tis 
a  hellish  thing  to  be  alonef" 

She  found  it  necessaiy  to  pause  for  some  moments  after  this  observation 


[  698  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

in  order  to  regain  control  of  her  feelings.  Then,  speaking  carefully  and 
avoiding  his  eyes,  she  asked  how  it  happened  that  he  was  not  in  London. 
What  had  brought  him  to  the  cabin?  Had  he  known  she  was  in  Maryland? 
Had  he  heard  the  gossip  in  Church  Creek  about  Miss  Bromly?  What  had 
led  him  to  believe  that  she  was  Joan  Toast?  Did  he  understand  that  she  had 
loved  Henry  Budingame  for  a  dozen  years  and  had  come  to  Maryland 
hoping  to  marry  him?  Did  he  appreciate  that  it  was  Bertrand's  terrible 
news,  and  Mr.  Spurdance's,  and  Joan  Toast's,  and  her  despair  at  ever  find- 
ing either  Henry  or  her  brother,  and  the  shock  of  being  assaulted  by  a 
savage  who  miraculously  resembled  Burlingame,  that  had  brought  her  to 
her  present  state?  She  dissolved  in  tears  of  shame.  Ebenezer  took  her  hand, 
but  made  no  attempt  to  answer  the  questions;  the  important  ones  were 
rhetorical  anyhow,  and  the  very  tone  of  her  voice  belied  the  assertions  im- 
plicit in  them. 

"My  story  will  take  hours  to  repeat/'  he  said  gently,  "and  I've  been 
telling  divers  parts  to  divers  people  these  two  days  till  I  am  weary  oft 
Ffaith,  Anna,  there  is  so  much  to  say!  You  wept  once  when  we  were  first 
separated  for  an  evening  and  declared  we'd  ne'er  catch  up  to  each  other 
again— I  little  dreamt  the  full  import  of  that  remark!  Now  'tis  no  matter  of 
hours  or  rooms  that  parts  us;  'tis  as  if  we  were  on  twin  mountaintops,  with 
what  an  abyss  between!  We  shall  span  it  ere  we  leave  this  cabin,  though  it 
take  a  week  of  explanation— how  fine  a  gentleman  Billy  is  to  give  us  some 
hours  to  make  beginnings!— but  methinks  'twere  better  to  hear  first  what 
passed  'twixt  you  and  Joan,  and  what  the  state  of  things  at  Maiden  is,  now 
Father's  there,  for  the  smallest  detail  of  my  story  may  want  an  hour's  gloss." 
By  way  of  example  he  declared  that  the  resemblance  of  Billy  Rumbly  and 
Henry  Burlingame  was  no  more  miraculous  than  that  of  any  other  pair  of 
brothers;  nor, would  he  explain  this  staggering  proposition  until  he  had 
heard  his  sister's  story.  Anna  was  almost  dumb  struck;  she  pleaded  for  more 
information,  but  Ebenezer  was  adamant 

"Please,"  he  said,  "have  you  not  seen  Henry  at  all?  I  must  know  these 
things  ere  I  commence." 

"Not  at  all/'  Anna  sighed,  "nor  hath  anyone  in  Cambridge  or  St  Mary's 
City:  the  name  is  foreign  to  them."  And  resigning  herself  to  the  postpone- 
ment of  her  questions,  she  told  of  her  great  loneliness  in  St.  Giles,  her 
growing  fear  that  Burlingame  would  never  succeed  in  discovering  his 
parentage  (which  discovery,  she  declared,  he  had  made  prerequisite  to  their 
marriage),  and  her  final  determination  to  leave  their  father  to  his  querulous- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  699  ] 

ness,  join  Ebenezer  at  Maiden,  and  either  persuade  Burlingame  to  abandon 
his  research  or  else  assist  him  in  whatever  way  she  could. 

At  this  point  Ebenezer  interrupted;  turning  her  face  to  his  he  said, 
"Dearest  Anna,  don't  feel  shame  in  your  brother's  presence!  This  bridge  of 
ours  must  have  piers  of  love  and  candor;  else  'twill  fall."  What  was  on  his 
mind  was  the  love  which  she  was  alleged  to  feel  for  him,  and  about  which  he 
thought  it  imperative  to  reach  an  understanding  from  the  first;  having 
invited  her  to  confess  it,  however,  he  suddenly  recalled  Burlingame's 
assertion  that  Anna  herself  was  at  most  only  dimly  aware  of  her  strange 
obsession  and  possibly  altogether  oblivious  to  it.  Her  look  of  bewilderment 
seemed  to  confirm  this  assertion,  and  the  poet  was  covered  with  confusion. 
"What  I  mean/'  he  added  lamely,  "matters  once  reached  a  pass  where 
Henry  judged  it  necessary  to  take  me  altogether  into  his  confidence  ...  I 
being  your  brother,  after  all .  .  ,  and  in  sooth,  I  have  learned  some  things 

about  him  that  you "  He  could  not  go  on;  Anna  blushed  as  deeply  as 

he  and  veiled  her  eyes  with  her  hand. 

"And  thou'rt  aware  that  my  husband  resembles  him  in  every  particular/' 
she  said.  "In  short,  I  am  no  less  virginal  than  thyself,  and  no  more  in- 
nocent" 

"Let  us  speak  no  more  of  H"  Ebenezer  begged. 

"One  more  thing  only/'  She  removed  her  hand  and  regarded  him  seri- 
ously. Ebenezer  felt  certain  that  she  was  about  to  confess  her  unnatural 
passion— a  prospect  the  more  alarming  because  of  his  suspicion,  vouched 
stoutly  for  by  Burlingame,  that  to  some  extent  he  shared  it— but  instead 
she  declared  that  he  must  not  think  her  naiVe  with  regard  to  Henry  Bur- 
lingame* Hadn't  she  seen  that  he  took  his  deepest  pleasure  in  the  two 
together?  Hadn't  he  revolted  her  time  and  again  at  St.  Giles  by  his  amorous 
disquisitions  on  everything  from  asparagus-spears  to  bird  dogs  of  both  sexes? 
"Methinks  'tis  easier  to  know  another  than  to  know  thyself,"  she  said. 
'There  is  little  in  Henry's  character  that  is  foreign  to  me."  She  smiled 
for  the  first  time  and  blushed  at  a  sudden  recollection,  "Dare  I  tell  you 
something  he  neglected  to?  I  asked  him,  ere  the  twain  of  you  left  Lon- 
don, wherefore  you  made  so  much  of  your  virginity,  when  I  longed  so  to 
have  done  with  mine!  And  I  said  farther  that  were  you  he,  the  both  of 
us  would  put  an  end  to  innocence/' 

Ebenezer  shifted  uncomfortably. 

"His  reply/'  Anna  continued,  watching  Ebenezer's  face,  "was  that  you 
harbored  in  your  breast  a  grand  and  secret  passion  for  one  woman  that  the 
world  denied  you,  and  had  liefer  remain  a  virgin  than  take  second  choice!" 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"That  is  true  to  some  extent/'  the  poet  granted.  "Howbeit,  'twas  not  so 

much  the  ivorfd  that  denied  me  Joan  Toast,  as  John  McEvoy,  and " 

"Stay,  I  did  not  finish.  I  shall  confess,  Eben,  Henry's  news  inspired  me 
with  inordinate  jealousy,  albeit  I  knew  we  each  would  marry  soon  or  late. 
Tis  that  we  had  been  so  close,  you  know  ...  In  any  case,  I  demanded  to 
know  the  name  of  this  lady  who  had  writ  such  a  patent  on  your  heart,  and 
why  you'd  ne'er  confided  in  your  own  dear  sister  that  once  knew  your  every 
whim  and  secret  thought.  Henry  answered  that  you  yourself  scarce  realized 
who  she  was,  but  that  e'en  if  you  did,  the  force  of  custom  would  still  seal 
your  lips,  inasmuch  as  the  object  of  your  passion  was— your  sister!" 

Ebenezer  sat  bolt  upright.  "Henry  said  that?  FChrist,  there  is  no  end  to 
the  man's  nefariousness!  Do  you  know,  Anna,  he  told  me  the  selfsame 
thing  about  you?  That  your  passion  for  him,  unbeknownst  to  yourself,  was 
in  reality  an  incestuous  one  denied  its  true  object?  I  had  learned  of  your 
affair  with  him,  you  see— this  was  before  I  knew  of  his  impotence— and  I 
was  aflame  with  rage  and  envy " 

He  cut  his  sentence  short,  but  its  implication  hung  clearly  between  them 
for  both  to  see.  The  room  was  filled  at  once  with  tension  and  embarrass- 
ment, of  a  different  order  from  what  they  had  felt  before;  their  positions  on 
the  bench  were  suddenly  awkward;  on  pretext  of  scratching  her  leg,  Anna 
slipped  her  hand  from  under  his  and  averted  her  eyes. 

"So,"  she  said,  and  was  obliged  to  clear  her  throat.  "It  would  seem  there 
was  a  mustard  seed  of  truth  in  what  he  said  to  us/* 

For  a  time  they  could  speak  no  more.  The  silence  was  painful,  but 
Ebenezer  could  imagine  no  way  to  terminate  it.  What  was  one  to  say? 
Fortunately,  Anna  came  to  the  rescue:  in  a  mild,  deliberate  voice,  as  if  no 
digression  had  occurred,  she  resumed  the  narrative  of  her  journey  from  St. 
Giles,  employing  without  comment  the  proposition  that  her  motive  force 
had  been  to  join  Henry  Burlingame*  The  poet's  heart  glowed. 

"I  had  heard  naught  of  his  activities  since  1687,  when  you  and  !  aban- 
doned him  in  London.  Then  last  spring  he  approached  me  as  he  did  you 
later  on  the  Plymouth  coach,  disguised  as  Colonel  Peter  Sayer.  When  I 
was  finally  persuaded  of  his  true  identity— which  was  not  soon,  he  had 
altered  so!— he  told  me  the  tale  of  his  adventures  in  the  provinces,  his  dis- 
covery of  certain  references  to  a  namesake  in  Virginia,  and  the  political 
intrigues  to  which  he  was  a  party." 

Ebenezer  questioned  her  closely  on  this  last  subject,  confessing  his  doubts 
about  Burlingame's  good  will  towards  him  and,  what  was  vastly  more  im- 
portant, his  misgivings  about  the  virtuousness  of  Lord  Baltimore's  cause 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  yoi  ] 

and  the  viciousness  of  Coode's.  It  was  then  necessary  to  waive  his  earlier 
agenda  and  tell  of  Henry's  impostures  of  both  Charles  Calvert  and  John 
Coode,  and  the  transfer  of  his  allegiance  from  the  former  to  the  latter; 
Bertrand  Burton's  conviction  that  Burlingame  himself  was  John  Coode;  the 
evidence  suggesting  that  Coode,  Lord  Baltimore,  Burlingame,  and  Andrew 
Cooke  himself— or  some  combination  thereof— were  involved  in  that 
deplorable  traffic  in  prostitutes  and  opium  of  which  Anna  had  learned  from 
Benjamin  Spurdance;  and  finally,  Ebenezer's  own  sweeping  suspicion  that 
both  Baltimore  and  Coode  either  did  not  exist  save  in  Burlingame's  im- 
postures, or  else  existed  as  it  were  abstractly,  uninvolved  in  and  perhaps 
eyen  ignorant  of  the  schemes  and  causes  attributed  to  them. 

Anna  listened  with  interest,  but  professed  no  great  surprise  at  Burlin- 
game's complex,  dubious,  and  often  inconsistent  behavior.  "As  to  whether 
Lord  Baltimore  and  John  Coode  are  real  or  figmentary,"  she  declared,  "I 
cannot  say,  albeit  'twere  hard  to  believe  that  so  general  an  assumption  hath 
no  truth  in't  Neither  can  I  say  with  confidence  whether  the  two  are  in 
sooth  opposed  or  in  league,  or  opposed  in  some  matters  and  allied  in  others, 
or  which  hath  the  right  on  his  side.  But  I  have  cause  to  think  that  insofar 
as  Henry  hath  any  genuine  interest  in  these  matters,  his  sympathies  are 
with  neither  of  those  men;  nor  doth  he  truly  contradict  himself  by  declaring 
first  for  one  and  then  for  the  other.  The  man  he  really  admires  and  serves, 
I  do  believe,  is  Governor  Nicholson/' 

"Nicholson!"  Ebenezer  scoffed.  "He  is  neither  this  nor  that,  from  what  I 
hear:  he  is  no  Papist,  yet  he  fought  for  James  at  Hounslow  Heath;  he  was 
Edmund  Andros's  lieutenant,  and  so  differed  with  him  that  the  two  despise 
each  other  yet;  Lord  Baltimore  chose  him  to  be  commissioned  Royal 
Governor,  thinking  Nicholson  shared  his  sympathies,  but  albeit  Nicholson 
seems  concerned  with  prosecuting  Coode,  he  governs  as  if  Lord  Baltimore 
did  not  exist— which,  to  be  sure,  he  may  not/' 

Even  as  he  articulated  his  objection,  Ebenezer  grew  more  and  more 
persuaded  of  the  likelihood  of  Anna's  new  hypothesis,  until  his  arguments 
began  to  sound  like  evidence  in  its  favor.  Burlingame  had  early  confided 
that  his  purpose  was  to  play  off  Coode  and  Andros  against  Nicholson  to 
Baltimore's  benefit— that  is  to  say,  "both  ends  against  the  middle."  But  was 
not  Nicholson  truly  the  man  in  the  middle,  and  Baltimore  the  extremist? 
From  all  the  reports  of  his  impatience  with  dreamers  and  radicals,  his  hard- 
headedness,  daring,  irascibility,,  and  great  efficiency,  Nicholson's  character 
seemed  much  more  likely  to  appeal  to  Burlingame  than  Charles  Calvert's. 
Moreover,  while  not  an  idealist,  Nicholson  was  (now  that  Ebenezer  re- 


[  JQ2  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

fleeted  on  it)  perhaps  the  only  person  of  influence  who  had  actually  done 
anything  to  further  the  cause  of  culture  and  refinement,  for  example,  in  the 
Plantations:  he  had  established  the  College  of  William  and  Mary  during  his 
tenure  as  lieutenant  governor  of  Virginia,  and  had  avowed  his  intention  to 
found  a  similar  institution  in  Anne  Arundel  Town,  at  public  expense.  Even 
the  less  creditable  aspects  of  the  man— his  bastard  origins,  for  instance,  and 
that  obscure  erotic  streak  that  alienated  him  from  women  and  gave  rise  to 
rumors  of  everything  from  privateering  to  unnatural  practices— Ebenezer 
could  readily  imagine  to  be  attractive  in  Burlingame's  eyes!  In  short,  what 
began  as  a  refutation  ended  as  a  complaint. 

"Why  could  Henry  not  tell  me  this  at  the  outset,  as  he  told  you?" 

"  Tis  not  mine  to  answer  for  him/'  Anna  said  soothingly,  "but  he  did 
mistrust  your  enthusiasm,  Eben— as  well  about  virginity  as  about  Lord 
Baltimore's  commission.  You  know  how  he  was  wont  to  play  devil's  advocate 
at  St.  Giles;  with  Henry  one  never  knows  quite  where  one  stands/* 

There  was  little  in  this  explanation  to  console  the  poet,  but  he  held  his 
peace  while  Anna  went  on  with  the  story  of  her  passage  to  St.  Mary's  City, 
her  discovery  of  Bertrand  there  posing  as  Laureate  of  Maryland,  her  shock 
at  his  account  of  his  own  and  Ebenezer's  misfortunes,  and  her  resolve  to 
go  at  whatever  cost  to  her  ailing  brother's  bedside— all  of  which  Ebenezer 
had  heard  previously  from  Bertrand  himself. 

"I  was  obliged  to  put  ashore  at  Church  Creek/*  she  said,  "and  hire  a 
wagon-ride  to  Cambridge,  whence  I  meant  to  make  my  way  to  Maiden; 
but  near  the  wharf  at  Cambridge  I  saw  a  wretched  old  beggar  in  con- 
versation with  spme  slattern  of  a  woman,  and  albeit  I  had  no  idea  who 
they  were,  I  chanced  to  spy  this  ring  on  the  woman's  hand " 

"Ah,  God!" 

"She  was  showing,  it  to  the  beggarman,  and  when  he  laughed  at  it  she 
flew  into  a  rage  and  cried,  To  Hell  with  ye,  Ben  Spurdance!  He  is  my 
husband  nonetheless,  and  for  aught  we  know  that  villain  may  have  been 
carrying  him  off!' "  Upon  recognizing  the  ring  as  her  own,  Anna  said,  she 
had  understood  from  what  Bertrand  had  told  her  that  the  frightful-looking 
woman  must  t?e  her  sister-in-law,  and  the  reference  to  Ebenezer's  being 
carried  off  by  villains  had  greatly  alarmed  her.  She  had  gone  up  to  the  pair 
and  introduced  herself,  whereupon  the  woman,  for  all  sh*  had  just  been 
defending  Ebenezer,  now  cursed  him  as  a  coward,  a  liar,  and  a  pimp,  flung 
the  ring  at  Anna's  feet,  and  left,  declaring  she  must  get  back  to  Maiden 
before  the  new  whoremaster,  Andrew  Cooke,  came  looking  for  her.  This 
news,  together  with  the  testimony  of  Mr.  Spurdance  (who  apprised  her  of 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  703  ] 

his  former  position  at  Maiden)  that  Ehenezer  had  deserted  his  bride  and 
returned  with  some  other  gentleman  to  England,  had  caused  Anna  to 
swoon  away;  Mr.  Spurdance,  apparently  more  discriminating  than  Joan 
Toast  in  his  hatred,  had  revived  her  and  told  her  of  the  state  of  things  at 
Maiden:  that  the  cooper  William  Smith  had  transformed  it  into  a  den  of 
sundry  vices;  that  Master  Andrew  had  arrived  there  with  a  party  of  strangers 
the  day  before,  much  concerned  over  his  daughter's  whereabouts  and  dis- 
traught by  the  news  that  Ebenezer  had  lost  the  estate,  and  upon  seeing 
how  matters  actually  stood,  had  become  so  enraged  as  to  fall  victim  to 
something  like  apoplexy.  He  was  temporarily  confined  to  bed,  where  he 
spent  his  time  cursing  mankind  in  general,  but  as  of  the  hour  of  Joan's  visit 
to  Cambridge  it  was  not  yet  clear  whether  he  was  actually  unable  to  regain 
possession  of  the  estate  or  whether  his  wrath  was  occasioned  merely  by  the 
distracted  state  of  his  affairs;  similarly,  it  was  not  known  whether  or  in  what 
respect  he  was  himself  involved  in  Captain  William  Mitchell's  activities, 
but,  according  to  Joan's  report,  business  was  going  on  much  as  usual  at 
Maiden. 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head.  "Marry,  what  is  to  become  of  it?"  He  described 
the  circumstances  of  the  court-trial  at  Cambridge  wherein  he  had  innocently 
granted  Coofce's  Point  away,  and  explained  that  the  other  man  who  had 
boarded  the  Pilgrim  with  him  was  Burlingame  himself,  posing  as  one 
Nicholas  Lowe  of  Talbot.  "He  had  seen  Father  at  Captain  Mitchell's— 
though  Father  little  dreamt  it!— and  so  had  heard  you  were  in  the  Province. 
Twas  thus  we  disembarked  in  St.  Mary's  City,  with  the  farther  reason  that 
he  meant  to  ally  himself  with  Coode— so  he  feigned  at  least,  I  met  Bertrand 
there,  who  told  me  that  Henry  himself  was  Coode  and  that  you  were  bound 
for  Maiden,  whereupon  the  twain  of  us  stole  away  and  took  ship  that  night 
for  Cooke's  Point.  Twas  the  night  of  the  great  storm  that  you  may  remem- 
ber, and  we've  yet  to  reach  our  destination— but  that  tale  must  wait  till 
yours  is  done,  inasmuch  as  it  brings  us  to  Billy  Rumbly  and  my  reason  for 
being  here.  What  did  you  then?  Return  to  Church  Creek?" 

"Aye,"  Anna  said,  "for  want  of  alternatives.  I  durst  not  show  myself  at 
Maiden  till  I  learned  more  about  Father's  position,  nor  durst  I  remain  in 
Cambridge,  or  he'd  surely  hear  oft.  I  begged  Mr.  Spurdance  to  say  naught 
of  having  seen  me,  and  he  promised  to  pass  on  whatever  he  learned,  inas- 
much as  he  too  hath  no  small  interest  in  Cooke's  Point.  Then  I  took  lodg- 
ing in  Church  Creek  under  Meg  Bromly's  name,  hoping  I'd  learn  ere  my 
money  was  gone  that  it  was  safe  to  go  to  Father  or  else  find  some  clue  to 


[  704  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Henry's  whereabouts."  The  end  of  her  story  reduced  her  again  to  tears. 
"You  know  the  rest.  .  .  ." 

Ebenezer  did  his  best  to  comfort  her,  though  he  too  was  far  from  tran- 
quil. She  was  somewhat  consoled  by  the  news  that  her  tormentor,  Harry 
Russecks,  had  been  brought  low,  and  her  surprise  at  the  unexplained 
comradeship  of  Ebenezer  and  John  McEvoy  (whom  she  naturally  supposed 
to  be  in  London)  also  diverted  her  to  some  extent,  but  there  remained 
more  than  sufficient  cause  for  anguish.  Aside  from  the  fact  that  the  situation 
at  Maiden,  to  the  best  of  their  knowledge,  had  not  improved,  the  discovery 
that  Ebenezer  and  Burlingame  were  not  forever  lost  made  Anna  frightfully 
ashamed  of  her  present  condition,  which  only  utter  despair  could  justify. 
On  the  other  hand,  she  would  not  repudiate  Billy  Rumbly. 

"You  must  remember/'  Ebenezer  said,  "he  is  not  your  husband  in  the 
eyes  of  God  or  Maryland  law,  nor  e'en  by  the  custom  of  the  Ahatchwhoops, 
inasmuch  as  the  union  hath  not  been  consummated." 

"I  shall  wed  him  properly  now,"  Anna  replied.  "As  for  the  matter  of 
consummation,  'twere  an  overnice  point  in  our  case!" 

Ebenezer  declared  his  considerable  affection  for  Billy,  who  was  so  like 
his  brother  in  appearance  and  intelligence,  but  averred  that  insomuch  as 
Anna's  condition  at  the  time  of  choosing  him  had  been  far  from  responsi- 
ble, she  was  under  no  moral  obligation  to  maintain  the  connection.  "Billy 
himself  hath  vouched  for  that:  the  'bargain'  you  heard  him  allude  to  was 
our  agreement  that  thou'rt  free  to  leave  or  stay,  whichever  you  choose.  And 
Henry,  after  all " 

He  pressed  the  point  no  farther,  aware  that  his  footing  was  precarious. 
And  as  he  feared,  although  she  chose  not  to  remind  him  that  her  devotion 
to  Burlingame  was  ambiguous,  Anna  declared  very  pointedly,  "I  have 
pledged  myself  to  Billy,  Eben;  would  you  have  me  break  by  pledge?  If 
e'er  we  part,  'twill  be  at  his  behest,  not  mine;  I  shall  be  as  good  a  wife  to 
him  as  I  am  able." 

Much  mortified,  Ebenezer  said  no  more;  but  the  subject  of  his  original 
mission  in  Church  Creek  suddenly  seemed  more  crucial  than  ever  to  him. 
Since  despite  their  weariness  it  was  unlikely  that  either  of  them  would  be 
able  to  sleep,  he  proposed  that  he  summon  Billy  in  from  the  barn  and 
devote  the  remainder  of  the  night  to  exposing  his  plight  and  plans.  It  took 
no  more  than  the  assertion  that  innumerable  lives  were  at  stake  to  win 
Anna's  approval  of  this  proposal,  and  she  insisted  on  fetching  Billy  herself. 

She  did  not  return  at  once;  Ebenezer  spent  the  uncomfortable  interval 
sighing  at  the  fire.  Among  his  myriad  reflections  were  a  few  that  he  readily 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  7°5  ] 

identified  as  jealous,  though  he  could  not  banish  them:  Why  did  he  object, 
after  all,  to  a  marriage  of  Anna  and  Billy  Rumbly,  who  appeared  to  have 
all  the  virtues  and  none  of  the  vices  of  his  brother?  At  that  very  moment, 
no  doubt,  Billy  was  expressing  his  delight  at  Anna's  miraculous  change 
for  the  better:  what  was  taking  them  so  long? 

When  at  last  the  two  of  them  came  in,  he  was  obliged  to  put  these  feelings 
in  abeyance,  for  Billy  hurried  to  shake  his  hand. 

"Your  presence  hath  achieved  what  I  could  never,"  he  declared  with 
great  emotion.  "Whatever  the  outcome,  my  friend,  I  shall  bless  you  for 
bringing  her  to  herself/' 

He  shook  his  head  in  awe  at  the  spectacle  of  Anna  washing  her  face  and 
hands  in  the  basin  and  deploring  the  state  of  her  hair  and  clothes.  Now  that 
his  mistress  was  a  normal  English  girl,  her  presence,  and  Ebenezer's,  seemed 
to  intimidate  him;  he  proposed  to  find  them  something  to  eat  and  was 
much  abashed  at  Anna's  insistence  that  preparing  the  food  was  not  a  hus- 
band's chore. 

His  discomfiture  moved  even  Ebenezer  to  amusement  and  sympathy. 
TChrist,  Anna,  what  can  be  done  with  this  accursed  salvage  practice  of 
eating  a  meal  before  every  conversation?*' 

The  absence  of  malice  in  his  raillery  had  a  magical  effect:  the  others 
laughed,  and  Billy  was  put  somewhat  at  ease;  pipes  were  brought  out;  a 
bottle  of  wine  was  discovered  in  the  sideboard.  They  dined  in  the  best  of 
humor  on  cold  spareribs  and  chambre  muscatel.  Scoffing  at  the  "salvage 
practice"  just  alluded  to,  Anna  recounted  with  much  animation,  for  Billy's 
benefit,  the  salient  points  of  the  evening's  conversation,  and  though  her 
speech  made  Ebenezer  wonder  more  than  ever  what  had  detained  her  so 
long  outside,  both  men  regarded  her  throughout  with  the  misty  eyes  of 
love, 

"Anna  Cooke  of  St.  Giles  in  the  Fields!"  Billy  marveled.  "That  wants 
some  getting  used  to!" 

The  Indian's  subdued,  almost  awkward  voice  and  manner  touched  the 
poet  deeply;  he  put  down  as  unworthy  the  notion  of  somehow  telling  Billy 
about  Anna's  love  for  Burlingame.  To  divert  his  mind  from  it  he  posed  to 
himself  the  question  whether  "cultural  energy,"  so  to  speak,  was  conserved 
within  a  group  after  the  fashion  that  physical  energy,  according  to  Professor 
Newton,  was  conserved  within  the  universe.  Was  there,  he  wondered,  some 
unreckoned  law  of  compensation,  whereby  an  access  of  cultivation  on 
Billy's  part  reduced  Anna  to  bestiality,  and  her  improvement,  which  her 
paramour  had  so  devoutly  wished,  necessarily  brought  him  low?  He  decided 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

that  quite  possibly  there  was,  and  lost  interest  in  the  question.  As  soon  as 
the  meal  was  done  and  fresh  pipes  were  lit  he  sighed  and  said,  "There  was 
as  pleasant  an  hour  as  I've  spent  since  leaving  London,  but  my  pleasure  is 
a  guilty  one:  e'en  as  I  stretch  my  legs  here  and  McEvoy  pays  court  to  his 
new  mistress,  two  hostages  for  our  lives  are  shivering  in  a  hut  on  Bloods- 
worth  Island.  If  I  fail  in  my  errand,  not  only  they  but  haply  hundreds  and 
thousands  of  others  will  be  murthered/'  He  looked  to  Billy  for  approval 
"With  your  permission,  friend,  I'll  state  my  business  now/' 

Billy  shrugged  his  shoulders,  so  much  in  the  manner  of  Burlingame  that 
the  wine-cup  trembled  in  Anna's  hands.  "Methinks  I  can  predict  it,"  he  said, 
and  explained  unemotionally  to  Anna:  "What  the  English  call  Bloodsworth 
Island  is  at  the  southern  end  of  this  county.  Tis  a  refuge  for  fugitive  Negro 
slaves  and  disaffected  Indians  from  all  parts  of  the  Province,  who  have 
formed  an  alliance  for  the  purpose  of  driving  all  white  men  into  the  sea," 

Anna  was  horrified,  and  more  so  when  Billy  added,  "They  have  three 
great  leaders:  the  African  king  Drepacca,  whose  life  your  brother  once 
saved;  the  Anacostin  King,  Quassapelagh,  who  also  owes  his  life  to  your 
brother;  and  my  father,  the  Tayac  Chicamec,  to  whom,  if  I  be  not  wide  of 
the  mark,  your  brother  is  indebted  for  his  own  life/*  Ebenezer  confirmed 
this  speculation,  and  Billy  went  on  to  review  for  Anna—with  supplementary 
information  from  Ebenezer  about  Father  Joseph  FitzMaurice  and  the  jour- 
nals of  Captain  John  Smith  and  Sir  Henry  Burlingame— the  history  of  his 
parentage  and  the  fate  of  his  two  brothers.  "My  father  is  very  old,"  he 
concluded,  "and  no  match  in  strength  and  influence  for  Drepacca  and 
Quassapelagh.  Besides  which,  he  hath  been  doubly  unhappy  in  his  sons,  that 
not  only  are  fated  ne'er  to  carry  on  their  line  but  seem  driven  as  well  to 
turn  their  backs  upon  their  people  and  aspire  to  the  very  stars/*  Turning 
again  to  Ebenezer  he  said,  "If  I  may  hazard  another  guess,  you  and  your 
party  in  some  wise  fell  into  my  father's  hands,  and  you  saved  your  life  by 
pledging  to  restore  his  long-lost  son  to  him,  or  the  son  more  lately  lost,  or 
both,  to  lead  the  Ahatchwhoops  into  battle.  Is  that  the  case?" 

"That  is  the  case,"  the  poet  admitted.  "The  Tayac  Chicamec  is  much  ag- 
grieved by  your  defection,  but  what  saved  us  was  my  news  of  Henry  Burlin- 
game. If  'tis  not  overbold  of  me  to  speak  of  such  matters,  your  grandfather 
Sir  Henry  had  clearly  learnt  some  means  of  rising  above  his  shortcomings  on 
one  occasion,  inasmuch  as  he  contrived  to  get  your  father  on  Pokatawertus- 
san;  now  Chicamec  believes  that  just  as  Sir  Henry's  defect  was  transmitted 
to  his  grandsons,  so  perhaps  his  magical  remedy  was  transmitted  as  well " 

"The  Rite  of  the  Sacred  Egg-plant,'*  Billy  acknowledged  with  a  smile. 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [707] 

"Methinks  'tis  but  a  vulgar  superstition.  In  any  case  I  know  naught  oft — 
worse  luck!" 

"Nay,  but  your  brother  Henry  might,  so  Chicamec  believes,  inasmuch  as 
he  shares  Sir  Henry's  blood  and  pigmentation." 

"Whatever  this  mystery  of  magical  egg-plants/'  Anna  said  carelessly,  "if  it 
hath  the  effect  you  mentioned,  Henry  Burlingame  knows  no  more  oft  than 
doth  Billy."  At  once  she  realized  her  slip,  and  crimsoned. 

"Aye,  that's  plain  enough,"  Ebenezer  added  quickly,  "else  he'd  likely 
have  a  wife  and  family  by  this  time,  would  he  not?" 

But  it  seemed  clear  that  Billy  had  not  missed  the  implication  of  Anna's 
remark,  and  her  expression  was  unequivocally  guilty.  He  said  nothing— -for 
one  thing,  Ebenezer  deliberately  gave  him  no  opportunity—but  his  manner 
grew  pensive,  even  brooding.  No  less  than  Anna,  Ebenezer  regretted  the 
slip,  for  he  sensed  that  it  had  damaged  in  advance  the  appeal  he  was  about 
to  make.  Nevertheless  he  spoke  on  brightly,  as  if  nothing  had  changed, 
only  avoiding  wherever  possible  any  references  to  Burlingame. 

"There  is  my  plight,"  he  declared,  "e'en  as  you  guessed  it:  if  I  fail  to 
deliver  Chicamec  his  son  within  thirty  days— fewer  than  that,  now— poor 
Bertrand  and  Captain  Cairn  will  be  dismembered  and  burnt  at  the  stake- 
as  well  as  I,  for  I  have  pledged  myself  to  return  if  I  fail,  and  I  intend  to." 

"I  am  no  longer  an  Ahatchwhoop/*  Billy  muttered.  "Had  I  wished  to 
succeed  my  father  I'd  not  have  abandoned  him.  Nor  do  I  see  the  virtue  of 
trading  the  lives  of  your  friends  for  those  of  all  the  white  men  in  the 
Province/' 

"The  war  will  come  in  any  case/'  the  poet  insisted,  "only  Chicamec  will 
have  no  hand  in  waging  it.  Tis  not  my  object  to  deliver  him  a  good  general, 
but  to  prevent  the  war  itself/' 

To  this  Billy  replied,  more  sullenly  yet,  that  for  all  he  was  a  deserter, 
he  had  not  sunk  to  the  level  of  treason  against  his  people. 

"  'Tis  not  treason  I  have  in  mind,"  Ebenezer  protested,  not  at  all  pleased 
with  the  way  things  were  going,  "My  plan  is  not  to  betray  the  Ahatch- 
whoops,  but  to  save  them " 

Billy  bristled,  "Do  you  think  your  wretched  militia  is  a  match  for  Quas- 
sapelagh  and  Drepacca?  By  summer  the  Governor's  scalp  will  hang  from 
my  father's  ridgepolel" 

"Please,  sir,  hear  me  out!  If  Drepacca  makes  his  treaty  with  Monsieur 
Casteene  and  the  Naked  Indians,  the  English  will  be  harried  out  of  Amer- 
ica, and  'twill  be  no  chore  to  drive  the  French  out  after  them;  I  grant  that. 
But  'tis  not  the  English  case  I  plead:  'tis  the  case  of  humankind,  of  Civiliza- 
tion versus  the  Abyss  of  salvagery.  Only  think,  sir:  what  you've  acquired  in 
T/»«o  f4»a«  Q  fnrfmcrKt-  wanted  two  thousand  vears  and  more  a-building;  'tis 


[yo8]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

a  most  sweet  liquor,  is't  not?  Yet  the  mash  whence  man  distilled  it  is  two 
.dozen  centuries  of  toil  and  misery!  What,  will  you  drink  your  fill  and  throw 
away  the  flask,  when  your  people  hath  such  thirst?  I  grant  the  English  have 
used  you  ill,  but  to  drive  them  out  is  to  drive  yourself  back  into  darkness; 
'tis  fo  throw  out  the  baby  with  the  bath  water!" 

Billy  did  not  reply. 

"Ah  well,  here  is  my  plan,"  Ebenezer  said  resignedly.  "Whilst  I  was  in 
your  father's  town  I  marked  a  great  rivalry  betwixt  Quassapelagh  and 
Drepacca;  they  regard  Chicamec  as  no  more  than  a  valuable  figurehead,  as't 
were,  and  vie  with  each  other  to  dominate  the  triumvirate.  But  the  fact  is, 
neither  hath  the  whole  requirement  of  an  emperor,  do  you  think?  Quas- 
sapelagh hath  the  loyalty  of  the  Indians,  but  for  all  his  virtues  he  falls  short 
in  cleverness  and  diplomacy;  Drepacca  is  a  brilliant  fellow,  but  as  yet  hath 
little  strength.  .  .  ." 

"Thou'rt  a  shrewd  observer,"  Billy  admitted.  "Tis  well  for  them  the 
Tayac  Chicamec  is  old,  for  he  hath  both  wit  and  numbers  in  his  favor." 

"Precisely!"  the  poet  exclaimed.  "But  he  is  old,  and  there's  our  opportu- 
nity! Thou'rt  his  son,  and  heir  to  both  his  genius  and  his  influence;  if  he 
should  abdicate  in  your  favor,  'twould  be  no  chore  for  you  to  play  Quas- 
sapelagh  and  Drepacca  against  each  other,  Thou'rt  the  only  one  of  the 
three  who  can  rule  alone.  And  i'faith,  Billy,  what  blessing  you  could  bring 
to  your  people!  The  power  to  make  war  would  still  be  yours,  and  in  the 
plain  and  public  face  oft  any  governor  in  his  senses  will  put  an  end  to 
oppressing  you;  violence  will  give  way  to  honest  negotiation,  and  our  two 
peoples  may  borrow  each  the  best  of  the  other's  culture " 

"Why  do  you  not  apply  to  your  good  friend  Burlingame  instead?"  Billy 
interrupted.  "Belike  your  sister  could  hit  on  some  subtle  means  of  persuad- 
ing him." 

"Ah,  dear  Billy!"  Anna  cried.  "Fve  had  no  chance  yet  to  explain " 

"Apply  to  Burlingame  I  shall,"  Ebenezer  broke  in,  "but  not  to  go  to 
Chicamec.  In  the  first  place  he  is  English  by  nurture  and  appearance,  a 
stranger  to  your  people,  and  ne'er  could  win  their  trust;  in  the  second,  he  is 
close  to  Governor  Nicholson  and  hath  great  influence  in  the  provinces;  he 
can  do  your  cause  more  good  in  Anne  Arundel  Town  than  on  Bloodsworth 
Island."  He  searched  his  mind  desperately  for  additional  arguments. 
"  'Sheart,  Billy,  'tis  not  as  if  you  must  live  there  forever!  When  your  position 
is  secure  there'll  be  no  need  for  your  people  to  hide;  you  can  rule  just  as 
well  from  here  and  live  as  you  live  now.  As  for  Anna,  she  hath  declared 
already " 

"Enough,"  Billy  commanded,  and  rose  from  the  bench.  "The  hnm<>  **v 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  709  ] 

longs  to  Harvey  Russecks,  not  to  me;  and  the  woman,  as  I  gather,  belongs 
to  my  brother." 

"Go  to!"  pleaded  Anna.  "I  shan't  leave  you!" 

'Then  follow  me  to  the  town  of  Chicamec,"  Billy  said  coldly.  "The 
Ahatchwhoop  women  will  tear  you  to  pieces."  He  made  a  mocking  bow 
to  Ebenezer.  "I  congratulate  you,  sir,  on  achieving  both  of  your  objectives: 
your  sister  now  understands  that  she  is  no  Indian,  and  I  that  I  am  no  Eng- 
lishman. I  shall  go  back  to  Bloodsworth  Island  in  a  very  few  days." 

Anna  burst  into  tears.  "Nay,  if  thou'rt  English  no  more,  then  you  must 
own  me  for  thy  lawful  wife!" 

"On  that  point,  Miss  Cooke,  the  code  of  the  Ahatchwhoops  is  quite  clear: 
the  Tayac  may  take  as  many  outland  concubines  as  he  pleases,  but  the  blood 
of  his  wife  should  be  untainted.  Goodnight." 

Ebenezer  entreated  him  not  to  leave,  but  Billy  (who  now  demanded 
that  they  call  him  Cohunkowprets)  was  adamant.  "Tis  near  dawn  now, 
and  we've  yet  to  sleep,"  he  said.  "I  shall  spend  today  putting  my  friend's 
property  in  order;  tomorrow  we'll  return  to  Church  Creek  and  thence  to 
Bloodsworth  Island." 

Forbidding  Anna  to  follow  him,  he  left  the  cabin,  whereupon  Anna  fell 
into  a  fit  of  weeping  and  cursing  her  inadvertence.  Ebenezer's  own  feelings 
were  mixed:  on  the  one  hand  he  was  genuinely  sorry  that  Billy's  pride  had 
been  so  injured,  and  concerned  lest  his  stratagem  misfire  on  that  account; 
overbalancing  these  considerations,  however,  were  his  joy  at  finding  and  in 
a  sense  rescuing  his  sister,  as  well  as  succeeding,  so  it  appeared,  in  his  mission 
to  save  the  lives  of  his  companions.  It  was  no  easy  matter  to  calm  Anna's 
distress,  but  he  was  assisted  by  their  mutual  fatigue;  after  what  seemed  like 
hours  of  soothing  talk  he  put  an  end  to  her  tears,  and  when  the  first  gray 
light  appeared  she  was  asleep  on  the  bench* 


17:    HAVING  DISCOVERED  ONE  UNEXPECTED 
RELATIVE  ALREADY,  THE  POET  HEARS  THE  TALE 
OF  THE  INVULNERABLE  CASTLE  AND  ACQUIRES 
ANOTHER 


THROUGHOUT  THE   AFTERNOON   AND  EVENING  BOTH  EBENEZER  AND  HIS 

sister  did  their  best  to  regain  Billy's  friendship,  but  though  his  bitterness 
seemed  to  have  passed,  he  held  steadfastly  to  his  position  and  virtually 


]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

ignored  their  presence  as  he  worked  about  the  cabin,  until  at  length  they 
abandoned  their  overtures  aud  joined  him  in  tight-lipped  silence.  His 
taciturnity  was  not  the  only  change  in  Billy:  overnight,  as  it  were,  he  had 
discarded  his  mufti  and  become  an  Indian  again.  His  English  clothes  he 
had  exchanged  for  matchcoat  and  buckskin  breeches  (just  as  Anna,  when 
she  awoke,  had  exchanged  her  ragged  shift  for  a  proper  English  costume); 
his  movements  were  those  of  a  woodsman  rather  than  a  planter;  even  his 
skin  seemed  magically  to  have  darkened,  as  Anna's  had  quite  literally  light- 
ened under  her  diligent  scouring.  It  was  a  difficult  day,  and  Ebenezer  wel- 
comed the  coming  of  nightfall,  when  Billy  again  retired  to  the  bam  and 
he  and  Anna  talked  for  hours  between  their  separate  pallets  in  the  dark, 
much  as  they  had  done  in  childhood.  Next  morning  Billy  closed  the  cabin 
and  outbuildings,  hitched  up  the  team,  and  drove  them  silently  to  Church 
Creek.  He  would  not  enter  the  little  settlement  himself,  but  stopped  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  or  so  from  the  inn, 

"I'll  wait  here  for  one  hour  by  the  sun,"  he  announced — the  first  words 
he'd  spoken  in  two  days.  "Stay  with  your  sister  and  send  your  companion  to 
me  if  you  want  the  hostages  to  live." 

In  vain  Ebenezer  protested  that  he  had  promised  Chicaxnec  to  return  in 
person;  that  Anna  would  be  perfectly  safe  with  Mrs.  Russecks  if  the  miller 
was  not  entirely  recovered;  that  to  send  McEvoy  in  his  place  would  make 
him  look  and  feel  a  coward. 

"One  minute  of  your  hour  is  spent,"  Billy  observed,  and  turned  away;  to 
Anna's  farewell  he  made  no  reply  at  all. 

It  was  Ebenezer's  intention  to  approach  the  village  with  the  utmost  cau- 
tion, lest  Harry  Russecks  be  up  and  about  his  business,  but  upon  reaching 
the  inn  he  saw  McEvoy  and  a  considerable  number  of  others  gathered  in 
plain  sight  in  the  nearby  churchyard.  Anna  drew  a  scarf  about  her  face  to 
avoid  being  recognized  as  the  "Church  Creek  Virgin,"  and  they  went  over 
to  the  gathering. 

"Eben!"  McEvoy  cried  upon  recognizing  him.  "Dear  Christ,  but  it's  good 
to  see  ye  back!  I  feared  the  salvage  had  done  ye  to  death  for  stealing  his 
bride!"  He  noticed  Anna  and  went  pale;  "Is't  you,  Joan?"  he  whispered. 

Ebenezer  smiled.  "Twas  a  more  eventful  journey  than  I'd  supposed, 
John:  his  bride  was  not  Joan  Toast  but  my  sister  Anna,  who  is  his  bride 
no  longer." 

"What  in  Heav'n!" 

"There's  no  time  to  explain  now."  Ebenezer  glanced  at  the  activity 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  71 1  ] 

around  the  church  door.  "Since  thou'rt  not  in  hiding,  I  gather  that  Sir 
Harry  is  still  bedridden." 

"Nay,  Eben,  no  longer,"  McEvoy  said  seriously.  "Thou'rt  just  in  time  to 
attend  his  funeral!"  The  miller,  he  declared,  had  never  recovered  from  his 
comatose  state  and  had  expired  during  the  night  after  his  fall,  Mrs.  Russecks 
was  no  longer  hysterical,  but  seemed  indifferent  to  the  point  of  numbness; 
one  was  not  certain  that  she  quite  understood  what  had  happened.  Henri- 
etta was  of  course  subdued  by  her  mother's  reaction,  but  the  villagers  were 
openly  relieved  to  be  rid  of  the  tyrant. 

"I  share  their  sentiments/'  Anna  declared  with  feeling.  "He  was  a  beast! 
But  I  feel  sorry  for  good  Mrs.  Russecks  and  Henrietta,  who  were  so  kind 
to  me.  Where  are  they  now,  Mr,  McEvoy?" 

McEvoy  answered  that  they  were  inside  the  church,  where  the  funeral 
was  about  to  commence,  and  suggested  that  the  three  of  them  go  in  also. 

"You  should  go/'  Ebenezer  said  to  Anna,  "but  you  and  I  have  more 
urgent  business,  John:  Billy  Rumbly  waits  for  us  just  round  yonder  bend, 
to  go  to  Bloodsworth  Island.  We  daren't  detain  him." 

Anna  excused  herself  to  comply  with  her  brother's  suggestion,  and  Eben- 
ezer explained  the  situation  to  McEvoy  as  rapidly  as  possible.  "We  can 
only  pray  that  Billy  will  do  his  best  to  prevent  the  war,"  he  said  at  the  end, 
"but  in  the  meantime  we  must  rescue  Bertrand  and  the  Captain." 

"Aye,  but  what  then,  Eben?  Whither  do  we  go  from  there?" 

"Anna  swears  that  Heniy  Burlingame  is  a  lieutenant  of  Governor 
Nicholson's,"  the  poet  replied.  "Whether  he  is  or  not,  methinks  we  should 
go  to  Anne  Arundel  Town  with  all  haste  and  apprise  the  Governor  of  the 
coming  insurrection*  Beyond  that  I  cannot  see,"  He  hesitated,  uncertain 
how  to  broach  the  subject  of  Billy's  ultimatum;  but  McEvoy  took  the  matter 
out  of  his  hands* 

44  Twere  best  only  one  of  us  went,  Eben,  and  the  other  stay  here.  We 
heard  rumors  yesterday  that  a  famous  pirate  fellow  called  Every,  or  Avery, 
is  passing  through  on  his  way  to  the  head  o'  the  Bay  and  hath  been  foraging 
for  provisions  along  his  route.  Tis  not  likely  he'd  come  so  far  from  open 
water,  but  the  folk  are  up  in  arms,  and  the  ladies  will  want  some  protection. 
Besides,  ye'H  want  to  be  with  your  sister,  will  ye  not?" 

-Ah,  John " 

*Nay,  not  a  word,  now!  Ye  know  how  it  burthens  me  to  owe  my  life 
to  ye,  Eben;  give  me  this  chance  to  remit  a  little  on  account/' 

Ebenezer  sighed  and  confessed  that  he  was  not  in  a  position  to  protest, 
inasmuch  as  Billy  seemed  to  bear  him  a  grudge.  He  promised  to  look  after 


[  ji2  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Henrietta,  whom  McEvoy  frankly  admitted  love  for,  and  vowed  that  if  the 
hostages  had  not  arrived  safely  in  four  days  he  would  bring  the  Maryland 
militia  to  Bloodsworth  Island.  The  funeral  service  having  begun  inside  the 
church,  McEvoy  decided  to  leave  without  more  ado;  Ebenezer  went  with 
him  to  Billy's  wagon,  full  of  misgivings,  saw  him  off,  and  returned  to  the 
churchyard. 

For  all  the  villagers'  excitement,  the  next  few  days  were  happy  and  almost 
tranquil  for  Ebenezer  and  Anna  by  comparison  with  their  recent  past.  In- 
deed, the  pirate-scare  (based  on  Governor  Nicholson's  announcement  that 
"Long  Ben"  Avery's  ship  Phcmsie  and  Captain  Day's  brigantine  Josiah  had 
been  sighted  in  Maryland  waters)  turned  out  to  be  a  blessing  in  disguise. 
For  one  thing,  the  rumor  of  foraging  privateers  kept  everyone  indoors  much 
of  the  time  and  thus,  together  with  the  diversion  of  Harry  Russecks's  death, 
spared  Anna  no  end  of  embarrassment;  by  the  same  token  it  made  it  un- 
necessary for  Ebenezer  either  to  maintain  the  imposture  of  Sir  Benjamin 
Oliver  or  to  disclose  his  true  identity.  For  another,  although  Henrietta,  dis- 
tressed as  she  was  at  the  news  of  McEvoy's  dangerous  errand,  was  delighted 
to  see  "Miss  Bromly"  again  and  soon  became  fast  friends  with  her,  and 
although  Anna  and  Mary  Mungummory  (who  was  also  a  houseguest)  got 
on  splendidly  together,  Mrs.  Russecks  seemed  still  much  disturbed  by  the 
presence  of  the  twins;  Ebenezer  sensed  that  she  would  probably  not  have 
taken  them  in  as  guests  had  not  the  other  women  insisted  on  male  pro- 
tection. 

Her  manner  was  strange  and  contradictory:  in  their  company  she  was 
reserved,  even  slightly  hostile,  but  whenever  they  ventured  outside  she 
seemed  anxious  for  their  safety  and  was  clearly  relieved  when  they  returned 
uncaptured  by  pirates.  There  appeared  to  be  little  basis  for  Ebenezer's 
original  fear  that  she  abhorred  him  for  his  part  in  the  miller's  downfall; 
she  accepted  their  condolence  for  her  loss  but  admitted  readily  that  all  con- 
cerned, herself  included,  were  better  off  for  Sir  Harry's  demise,  and  insisted 
that  neither  Ebenezer  nor  McEvoy  were  in  the  least  responsible  for  it— the 
man's  arrogance,  pretentiousness,  and  jealousy,  she  avowed,  had  been  his 
nemesis.  On  the  other  hand,  she  would  listen  almost  with  irritation  to  the 
poet's  account  of  his  peregrinations  since  April  last,  and  once  when  he  was 
voicing  his  joy  at  being  reunited  with  his  sister,  she  left  the  room, 

"I  cannot  fathom  it,"  Anna  said  on  that  occasion.  "She  was  so  gracious 
before,  and  now— 'tis  as  if  the  sight  of  us  gives  her  pain!" 

"Nay,  child,"  Mary  Mungummory  chuckled,  "I've  long  since  given  up 
Roxie  as  a  mystery.  None  but  the  good  Lord  knows  how  Harry's  death 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  713  ] 

hath  touched  her— she  hath  yet  to  tell  me  clearly  why  she  married  the  brute 
to  begin  with!" 

"We  must  be  patient/'  Henrietta  said.  "Try  to  forgive  her,  Anna/' 

"La,  'tis  we  must  be  forgiven/'  Ebenezer  protested.  "Your  mother's  a 
fine  judicious  soul,  and  whate'er  the  affront  we've  given  her,  'tis  plainly 
no  trifle." 

Henrietta  smiled,  "Since  we  agree  'tis  a  mystery,  let's  alter  the  maxim 
to  suit  the  case:  Rien  comprendre  c'est  tout  pardonner—n'est~ce  pas?1' 

And  there  the  matter  rested,  though  the  poet  saw  a  troubling  ambiguity 
in  the  proverb. 

By  way  of  posthumous  retribution  for  his  boorishness,  the  villagers  re- 
solved en  masse  that  Sir  Harry's  grave  remain  forever  anonymous;  with  the 
consent  of  Mrs.  Russecks,  who  declared  her  intention  of  removing  to  Anne 
Arundel  Town  in  the  near  future,  they  dismantled  the  machinery  of  the 
tide-mill  and,  in  lieu  of  inscribed  granite,  marked  his  resting  place  head 
and  foot  with  the  unadorned  millstones,  as  who  should  say  to  all  posterity: 
"No  nobleman  or  knight  lieth  here,  but  a  nameless  miller,"  Henrietta, 
though  she  made  no  secret  of  her  joy  at  being  delivered  from  her  father's 
despotism,  visited  the  grave  dutifully  every  day  during  this  period,  often 
accompanied  by  the  twins.  Mrs*  Russecks  would  not  go  with  them,  pleading 
fear  of  the  pirates;  to  get  out  of  the  house  they  were  obliged  to  unbar  the 
door,  which  she  then  barred  behind  them,  and  to  re-enter  they  knocked 
three  times  and  offered  a  password.  Similar  precautions  were  taken  by  most 
of  the  other  villagers  as  well,  on  whom  Sir  Harry  had  been  wont  to  press 
grisly  stories  of  his  torture  at  the  hands  of  Captain  Pound;  on  the  way  home 
from  the  churchyard  one  saw  houses  with  every  window  boarded,  and  Hen- 
rietta declared  that  some  people  had  nailed  fast  every  door  in  their  houses 
except  one,  which  was  kept  heavily  barred. 

Now  Ebenezer  could  scarcely  believe  that  pirates  would  come  so  far  up- 
river  from  the  Chesapeake,  nor  had  he  ever  heard  of  their  assaulting  a  whole 
village  in  the  English  provinces;  nevertheless,  the  responsibility  for  a  house- 
ful of  women  weighed  heavily  upon  him— the  more  since  he  had  no  weapons 
except  Sir  Harry's  old  cutlass— and  the  general  mood  of  alarm  was  con- 
tagious. On  the  third  day  of  their  visit,  therefore,  while  taking  tea  with 
Anna,  Henrietta,  and  Mary  Mungummory,  he  suggested  that  they  follow 
the  example  of  the  neighbors* 

"After  all,  we're  but  one  man  with  one  sword;  if  the  pirates  really  should 
come  hither,  they  could  have  at  us  through  two  doors  and  a  dozen  windows/' 


[714]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

For  some  reason  this  proposal  amused  Henrietta,  "'Twould  make  our 
house  an  invulnerable  castle,  would  it  not?" 

'Very  nearly,  if  you  choose  to  think  oft  thus.  Really,  Henrietta,  is't  so 
humorous  that  Fm  concerned  for  your  safety?7' 

"Nay,  Eben,  'tis  not  that  at  all.  The  fact  is,  our  family  hath  had  unhappy 
dealings  with  invulnerable  castles  in  the  past;  otherwise  my  mother  would 
be  no  orphan,  and  belike  we'd  not  be  named  Russecks  at  all." 

Everyone's  curiosity  was  aroused  by  this  remark;  if  Mrs.  Russecks  was  an 
orphan,  whence  came  her  patent  of  nobility?  And  what  was  signified  by 
this  allusion  to  invulnerable  castles?  They  demanded  to  hear  the  story. 

"Ah,  now,  I've  sworn  not  to  speak  of  my  family  to  Eben  and  Anna " 

She  smiled  mischievously  and  whispered,  "But  if  Mother's  asleep  I'll  for- 
swear myself— 'tis  a  marvelous  tale!" 

She  tiptoed  upstairs  to  Mrs.  Russecks's  chamber  and  returned  with  the 
news  that  her  mother  was  still  napping  soundly.  "Now  I've  no  idea  why  all 
this  hath  suddenly  become  such  a  deep,  dark  secret,  but  when  Eben  left  us 
to  ride  out  to  Billy  Rumbly's,  Mother  made  me  swear  to  say  naught  of  her 
family  in  his  presence.  Since  I'd  not  dream  of  going  counter  to  her  wishes, 
you  must  swear  to  me  you'll  keep  her  secret.  Do  you  swear?" 

They  did,  much  amused  by  her  casuistry,  and  Henrietta,  assuming  the 
manner  of  a  professional  storyteller,  began  what  she  called  The  Tale  of 
the  Invulnerable  Castle,  as  follows: 

"Once  on  a  time  there  lived  in  Paris  a  certain  Count  named  Cecile 
Edouard,  who  had  the  bad  judgment  to  be  born  into  a  family  of  Hugue- 
nots .  .  ." 

Ebenezer  suddenly  frowned.  "I  say,  Henrietta,  have  you  e'er  heard 
tell " 

"Ah,  ah,  ah!"  the  girl  scolded.  "Marry,  Eben,  thou'rt  Laureate  of  this 
wretched  province,  and  you  know  very  well  'tis  only  a  boor  will  interrupt 
a  story!" 

The  poet  laughed  and  withdrew  his  question,  but  his  expression  remained 
thoughtful. 

"I  was  just  getting  to  the  family  scandal,"  Henrietta  said  with  relish. 
"Maman  wouldn't  mind  your  knowing  this;  I've  heard  her  tell  it  to  others 
often  enough,  to  mortify  papa  when  he  bragged  of  her  nobility.  The  fact  is, 
albeit  we  know  Monsieur  Edouard  was  a  bona  fide  count,  his  ancestry  is 
lost  to  history,  and  there  was  a  scandalous  story  among  the  workmen  and 
servants  at  Edouardine " 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  7*5  ] 

"Dear  God,  I  was  right!"  Ebenezer  cried.  He  half  rose  from  his  chair 
with  excitement  and  then  sat  down  again,  his  features  dancing.  "Tell  me, 
Henrietta,  was  this  man  your— let  me  see-your  grandfather?  And  was  this 
Castle  Edouardine  here  in  Dorset  County,  not  far  from  Cooke's  Point?" 

Henrietta  feigned  exasperation.  "I  declare,  Anna,  your  brother  must  be 
taken  in  hand!  What  matter  if  you've  heard  the  plot  already?"  she  de- 
manded of  Ebenezer.  "Dido  knew  the  tale  of  Troy,  but  she  had  manners 
enough  to  hear't  twice  from  Aeneas,  nor  e'er  broke  in  with  niggling  ques- 
tions," 

"But  you  yourself  don't  realize — " 

"Stop  him,  Anna,  or  I'll  not  say  another  word!" 

By  now  everyone  was  laughing  at  Ebenezer's  frustration  and  Henrietta's 
mock  anger,  even  the  poet  himself, 

"Very  well,'*  he  said,  Til  hold  my  peace.  But  I  must  warn  you:  if  your 
tale  goes  whither  I  guess,  I'll  steal  your  thunder  with  a  postscript  more 
marvelous  by  half/' 

44  Tis  your  privilege,  and  may  the  cleverest  liar  win.  But  will  you  swear 
to  interrupt  me  no  more,  on  pain  of  hearing  me  read  my  verses  if  you  do? 
Good,  then  let's  return  to  the  family  scandal,  which  you  threaten  to  outdo 
with  one  of  your  own.  I  said  there  was  a  story  that  Cecile's  mother  had  been 
a  Jewess,  nor  any  rich  one,  either,  but  a  common  chambermaid  or  wash- 
woman in  a  noble  Roman  house.  In  the  same  house  there  was  a  Greek 
who  had  once  tutored  the  Marchese's  children,  but  had  been  reduced  to 
the  post  of  footman  because  of  his  depravity;  'tis  said  he  got  the  young 
Jewess  with  child  ere  he  was  sent  packing,  and  that  subsequently  she  con- 
trived to  make  a  conquest  of  the  Marchese  himself  and  prevailed  upon  him 
to  raise  her  bastard  son  as  his  own,  right  there  in  the  palazzol"  Henrietta 
pointed  out  that  this  story  shed  no  light  whatever  on  Monsieur  Edouard's 
metamorphosis  from  Roman  to  Parisian,  Catholic  to  Huguenot,  and  natural 
son  to  nobleman.  Nevertheless,  she  insisted,  for  the  connoisseur  of  vulgar 
gossip  it  possessed  a  certain  persuasiveness:  its  odd  particularity  had  the  ring 
of  truth.  As  for  the  mysterious  changes  of  status,  she  added  mischievously, 
was  not  their  own  Governor  Nicholson  the  Duke  of  Bolton's  bastard,  and 
had  he  not  enjoyed  transmogrifications  of  faith  and  place  no  less  astonish- 
ing? 

"Whatever  his  origin/'  she  went  on,  "we  know  for  a  fact  he  was  neither  a 
hypocrite  on  the  one  hand  nor  a  martyr  on  the  other;  when  the  Huguenots 
continued  to  be  persecuted  even  after  the  Edict  of  Nantes,  he  refused  to 
become  a  Papist,  but  fled  from  Paris  to  London  and  joined  Oliver  Crom- 


[•716]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

well's  army.  Maman  says  he  fought  bravely  in  divers  campaigns,  but  cannot 
recollect  which  ones.  In  any  case  he  left  the  Lord  Protector's  service  in 
1655,  as  abruptly  as  he  had  joined  it,  and  came  to  Maryland."  She  sighed. 
"Now  here's  a  weak  spot  in  my  Edouardiad,  that  Eben  will  surely  pounce 
upon:  the  voyage  of  your  proper  epical  hero  like  Ulysses  or  Aeneas  is  always 
fraught  with  trials,  but  Cecile— albeit  he  did  sail  east  to  west,  as  a  hero 
ought— crossed  without  incident.  He  must  have  got  a  fortune  somewhere  in 
his  past,  for  he  cargoed  three  ships  with  naught  but  furniture,  carpetings, 
ironwork,  plate,  flatware,  gewgaws,  and  brummagem  oddments  for  the  house 
he  meant  to  raise  in  the  Plantations.  What's  more,  he  brought  his  wife 
Sophie  along,  which  no  epical  hero  would  bother  doing,  and  the  rest  of  his 
menage  as  well:  fifteen  servants  and  Maman,  his  only  child,  who  was  seven 
or  eight  years  old.  The  Province  was— thirty-four  from  fifty-five—only 
twenty-odd  years  old  itself  at  the  time,  and  had  surely  never  beheld  such  a 
Croesus  as  my  grandfather.  In  1659  the  Lord  Proprietary— that  would  be 
Cecilius  Calvert  then— patented  him  six  hundred  acres  on  the  Choptank, 
which  was  almost  terra  incognita  then,  and  he  moved  across  the  Bay  with 
his  company  and  baggage  to  build  a  house." 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head  in  wonderment,  but  not  at  Henrietta's  narrative. 
"Nay,  Eben,  you  must  wait  as  you  promised,"  she  teased.  "What  you've 
heard  is  merely  the  preface,  and  now  the  tale  proper  commences," 

There  was  among  Monsieur's  servants,  she  declared,  an  old  fellow  known 
only  as  Alfred,  who  had  been  his  master's  valet  as  long  as  anyone  could 
remember.  This  Alfred  was  said  to  know  Cecile  more  intimately  than  did 
even  Madame  Edouard  herself  ("Nor  doth  this  fact  surprise  me,  for  there 
are  things  one  tells  one's  inferiors  that  one  would  scarcely  tell  one's 
wife  .  .  .");  what  'was  surprising  was  that  Alfred's  master  loathed  him. 
Cecile,  "one  gathers,"  was  not  such  a  fool  as  to  be  unaware  of  his  own 
character,  but  his  position  enabled  him  to  punish  others  for  his  shortcom- 
ings; yet  he  dared  not  cashier  the  valet  and  have  done  with  it,  not  only 
because  Alfred  knew  so  much  about  him,  but  also  because  the  servant,  de- 
spite his  menial  status,  seemed  to  have  been  endowed  with  uncommon 
acumen  and  foresight. 'Thus  Monsieur  never  failed  to  heed  his  valet's 
counsel,  for  he  was,  "like  many  another  man,"  wise  enough  to  recognize 
good  sense  when  exposed  to  it,  if  not  wise  enough  to  conjure  it  for  himself; 
but  poor  Alfred  was  ill  rewarded  for  his  services,  inasmuch  as  each  time 
his  advice  was  taken,  his  master's  resentment  towards  him  increased.  In  fact, 
Alfred  had  been  beaten  on  occasions  when  his  counsel  proved  particularly 
sound. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Now  Cecile  fell  to  the  task  of  raising  his  house  with  wonderful  haste 
and  gusto.  He  had  made  few  plans  beforehand,  but  he  brought  with  him 
to  Edouardine  a  shallop's-load  of-  carpenters,  cabinet-makers,  and  even 
masons  and  glaziers,  though  there  was  no  more  stone  in  Dorset  then  than 
there  is  now,  and  his  window  glass  and  mirrors  were  still  en  route  from 
London.  In  six  months,  whilst  the  family  and  workmen  lived  in  cabins, 
an  imposing  wooden  edifice  was  raised,  with  a  large  central  section  and 
two  wings.  Ordinarily  such  an  army  could  have  built  the  house  more 
quickly,  but  it  happened  that  Monsieur  Edouard,  for  all  his  reputed  courage 
against  more  cultivated  antagonists,  was  possessed  of  a  marvelous  fear  of 
salvages;  time  and  again  he  halted  the  progress  of  his  house  and  set  his  men 
to  building  a  stockade  fence  about  the  grounds,  or  clearing  away  more  trees 
on  his  point  of  land,  or  constructing  earthworks  against  Indian  attacks.  Just 
how  numerous  and  belligerent  were  the  salvages  thereabouts  no  one  knew 
at  the  time,  but  certainly  Alfred  could  have  pointed  out  to  Monsieur  the 
Count  in  a  moment  that  such  defenses  were  of  the  wrong  sort  altogether. 
Howbeit,  as  I  said  before,  he  was  the  perfect  servant;  he  ne'er  durst  proffer 
advice  unless  asked  for't,  and  Cecile  was  too  engrossed  in  building  his 
palisades,  terrepleins>  and  demilunes,  ever  to  question  their  utility.  In  sooth, 
Indians  were  observed  in  the  neighborhood  from  time  to  time,  apparently 
spying  on  all  the  commotion,  and  albeit  their  motives  may  have  been  naught 
more  sinister  than  curiosity,  still  their  presence  sufficed  to  send  Cecile  into  a 
fresh  fit  of  crenelations,  embrasures,  and  machicoulis. 

"When  at  length  the  house  was  finished,  save  for  the  window  glass,  he 
loaded  Sophie,  Alfred,  and  himself  into  a  small  boat  and  bade  another 
servant  row  them  some  hundred  yards  offshore,  the  better  to  view  Edouar- 
dine from  its  noblest  elevation* 

44  Well,  Sophie/  Monsieur  demanded  (I  mean  to  invent  these  colloquies 
for  the  sake  of  interest,  if  the  Laureate  hath  no  objection) —'Well,  now, 
Sophie,*  he  demanded,  'what  do  you  say  of  Edouardine?'  And  Madame 
Edouard  replied,  *  Tis  lovely,  mon  cherj 

"'Lovely,  you  say!'  (Can't  you  see  him  turning  red  like  Papa,  and  poor 
Sophie  lowering  her  eyes?)  'Lovely,  you  say!  C'est  magnifiquel  Sans  pareill 
And  my  pdwadel  Why,  we  are  invulnerable!'  And  th'en  he  demanded  to 
know  whether  Alfred  too  regarded  Edouardine  as  merely  beau. 

"  'The  house  is  superb,  Monsieur/  I  can  hear  Alfred  saying— very  calmly, 
you  know,  *It  is  truly  elegant/ 

44  'Eh?  You  think  so?  That's  more  to  the  mark!' " 

The  whole  company— Ebenezer,  Anna,  and  Mary  Mungummory— ap- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

plauded  Henrietta's  lively  mimicking  of  the  arrogant  Count  and  his  timid 
valet. 

"  'But  if  Monsieur  will  observe ' . 

"  'What's  that?  Observe  what?' 

"  'I  think  of  the  salvage  Indians,  Monsieur.  .  .  / 

"  'Ah,  you  think  of  them?  Did  you  hear  that,  Sophie?  He  thinks  of  les 
sauvages,  doth  this  Alfred!  And  do  you  suppose  I  think  of  aught  besides, 
you  idiot?  Small  chance  they  have  of  broaching  my  palisade!' 

"  'None  whate'er,  Monsieur;  but  I  fear  they  would  not  need  to  broach  it 
in  order  to  do  you  injury.' 

"  'And  how  is  that,  pray?  Do  you  fancy  they  have  artillery?' 

"Whereupon  Alfred  must  have  cleared  his  throat  and  said  politely,  *I  have 
heard,  Monsieur,  that  these  salvages  make  use  of  flaming  arrows  in  siege. 
Despite  your  clearing  the  trees,  they  could  very  well  (if  they'd  a  mind  to) 
stand  off  yonder  in  the  forest  and  throw  such  arrows  over  the  palisade  onto 
the  house— which  then  must  surely  take  fire,  inasmuch  as  'tis  made  of  wood. 
Monsieur  would  be  obliged  to  use  many  men  to  put  out  the  fire,  and  thus 
leave  the  palisade  weakly  manned:  the  salvages  would  be  upon  us  in  short 
order.  Always  assuming,  of  course,  that  they  are  hostile.' 

"  'Ridiculous!  Preposterous!'  I  daresay  Cecile  came  nigh  to  striking  the 
valet  for  having  mentioned  such  a  possibility,  and  Alfred  surely  pressed  the 
point  no  farther.  But  next  day  the  carpenters,  that  were  making  ready  to 
return  to  St.  Mary's  City,  found  themselves  engaged  for  another  three 
months,  for  the  purpose  of  rebuilding  the  house  they  had  just  completed. 
Moreover,  their  new  job  involved  no  carpentry  at  all,  but  laying  bricks.  First 
Monsieur  sent  a  party  to  explore  the  beaches  for  clay;  when  they  found  a 
good  bed  he  set  half  his  crew  to  digging,  shaping,  and  firing,  and  the  other 
half  to  mixing  mortar  and  laying  the  finished  bricks.  What  he  did,  in  effect, 
was  simply  erect  a  new  house  of  brick  to  encase  the  wooden  one,  leaving 
all  the  doors  and  windows  in  their  original  locations.  It  wanted  four  months 
instead  of  three  to  complete  the  job,  during  which  period  Indians  were  re- 
marked more  frequently  than  before,  in  ones  and  twos*  The  finished  manor 
even  Maman  remembers  as  a  truly  formidable  affair* 

"When  the  last  brick  was  in  place,  Monsieur  Edouard  assembled  all  his 
workmen  and  servants  before  the  house.  Some  weeks  earlier,  one  of  their 
number—  I'll  have  more  to  say  of  him  anon:  he  was  an  English  redemptioner 
so  jealous  of  his  master's  favor  that  he  changed  his  name  from  James  to 
Jacques— this  fellow  had  found  a  salvage  bow  and  arrows  in  the  woods 
nearby,  and  now  Cecile  instructed  him  to  secure  a  resinous  pine  knot  to 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  719  ] 

the  shaft  of  an  arrow,  down  by  the  head,  and  set  it  ablaze,  after  what 
was  held  to  be  the  manner  of  the  Indians. 

"  'Now  fire/  he  ordered  Jacques.  'Shoot  the  arrow  at  my  house,  s'il  vous 
plait! 

"All  the  party  watched  these  goings-on  with  much  interest,  for  everyone 
knew  why  Monsieur  had  encased  his  house  with  brick.  The  redemptioner 
took  aim  and,  being  a  reasonably  good  marksman,  contrived  to  hit  the  great 
house  some  thirty  feet  distant  The  arrow  glanced  off  the  bricks  and  fell 
harmlessly  to  the  ground. 

"  'VozW  Cecile  shouted  in  Alfred's  ear.  "Can  they  harm  us  now,  my 
brilliant  captain?' 

"  1  see  no  likelihood  that  they  will,,  Monsieur;  so  long  as  the  salvages 
have  a  care  to  aim  only  at  the  walls,  we  are  as  secure  as  the  Bastille/ 

"  'What  do  you  mean?  What  new  folly  is  this  you've  hatched?' 

"  'Should  they  shoot  from  the  woods,  Monsieur/  Alfred  ventured,  'as  they 
assuredly  would  do,  why  then  they  must  needs  aim  high,  the  more  so  since 
these  fire-arrows  are  so  heavy.  Reason  dictates  that  a  high  trajectory  would 
be  most  likely  to  bring  the  arrows  down  upon  the  roof,  and  the  roof  is 
still  made  of  wood/ 

"For  some  moments  Cecile  could  not  find  his  voice,  and  the  fawning 
fellow  with  the  bow,  who  was  unspeakably  envious  of  Alfred's  position  in 
the  household,  offered  to  put  his  theory  to  the  test;  but  Cecile  snatched 
away  the  bow  in  time  and  dismissed  the  company,  calling  them  idlers  and 
ne'er-do-wells.  On  the  following  day  the  men  found  themselves  dispatched 
in  search  of  slate,  for  the  purpose  of  recovering  the  roof.  ,  .  . 

"Now  it  happens  that  there  is  not  a  single  piece  of  roofing  slate  in  the 
whole  of  Dorset,  to  my  knowledge;  the  men  combed  the  countryside  and 
the  riverbanks  for  days  and  discovered  naught  but  a  few  hunting  Indians 
here  and  there.  These  they  joyfully  reported  to  their  employer,  who  grew  so 
frightened  (I'm  sure  he  had  heard  the  usual  tales  of  massacres  ere  he  left  St. 
Mary's)  that  he  scarcely  durst  venture  beyond  his  palissade,  and  cursed 
Alfred  with  every  breath.  Someone  suggested  that  he  have  his  slate  quarried 
and  shipped  from  across  the  Bay,  but  Cecile  trembled  at  the  prospect  of 
leaving  himself  vulnerable  for  so  long.  Finally  he  ordered  the  workmen  to 
cover  the  peaked  roof  with  large,  flat  bricks,  and  this  they  proceeded  to  do. 
Under  the  enormous  additional  weight  the  rafters  commenced  to  buckle;  it 
became  necessary  to  fashion  heavy  vertical  piers  from  whole  logs  to  support 
them.  The  job  required  another  month  and  immeasurable  bother,  inasmuch 
as  portions  of  the  floors  and  partitions  had  to  be  removed  to  accommodate 


[  J2O  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

the  piers.  Upon  its  completion  the  house  looked  very  secure  indeed,  if  some- 
what grotesque:  it  was  during  this  period  that  the  laborers  dubbed  it  The 
Castle,  in  jest,  and  Monsieur  Edouard,  for  once  more  flattered  than  an- 
noyed, renamed  his  property  Castlehaven.  Again  the  company  was  assem- 
bled before  the  main  entrance,  and  obliging  Jacques  lobbed  a  new  fire- 
arrow  onto  the  roof.  It  struck  the  tiles,  rolled  down  the  slope,  and  came  to 
rest  upon  a  sort  of  cornice,  where  it  eventually  burned  out 

"  Well,  sir?7  Cecile  demanded,  and  none  replied.  Alfred  looked  away. 

"  'I  command  you  to  say  truthfully,  on  pain  of  flogging:  is  my  castle 
invulnerable?  My  Jacques  shall  fire  where'er  you  wish!' 

"  'I  have  no  love  for  floggings,  Monsieur/ 

"  'Then  you  must  command  him/ 

"Jacques,  I  imagine,  was  so  pleased  that  he  could  scarcely  manage  to  light 
a  new  fire-arrow  and  draw  the  bow.  Into  a  window/  Alfred  murmured, 
'any  window .  .  /  And  he  indicated  with  his  arm  the  rows  of  open  window 
frames  on  both  floors  of  the  house. 

"  'Son  of  a  harlot!'  Cecile  cried,  and  this  time  when  he  snatched  the  bow 
he  took  a  swingeing  cut  at  Alfred,  who  must  surely  have  had  his  skull 
cracked  had  he  not  sprung  back.  The  company  dispersed,  and  Alfred  was 
birched  that  night  for  the  first  time  since,  on  his  advice,  the  m&nage  Edouard 
had  abandoned  Paris.  During  the  next  week  all  the  first-floor  windows  were 
bricked  in,  and  those  on  the  second  floor  were  reduced  to  shuttered  em- 
brasures like  cannon-ports.  It  goes  without  saying  that  the  absence  of  light 
and  air  made  living  downstairs  intolerable,  but  so  secure  was  Cecile  in  his 
fortress  that  he  was  actually  smiling  when  he  assembled  everyone  for  the 
third  time  to  witness  his  triumph  over  his  servant 

"  'Have  I  left  aught  undone?' 

"  'Naught,  Monsieur,  that  I  can  imagine/ 

"  'Ha,  did  you  hear,  mes  amis?  Monsieur  Alfred  hath  assured  me  I  am 
safe.  I  think  he  will  detain  you  no  longer.  Make  ready  to  depart/ 

"  'Ah,  Monsieur,  I  shouldn't  dismiss  them/ 

"Cecile  squeezed  the  valet's  arm.  'Oh,  you  shouldn't,  shouldn't  you?  And 
may  your  poor  benighted  master  hear  the  reason?' 

"'When  the  workmen  are  gone,  Monsieur,  you  will  have  only  your 
servants  and  yourself  to  defend  the  house:  four  men  to  a  door*  But  the 
salvage,  if  he  hath  a  fancy  to  attack  us,  will  attack  from  every  side ' 

"  'Flog  this  man!'  Cecile  cried,  and  the  luckless  fellow  was  dragged  off 
by  Jacques  and  the  others.  Then  the  overseer  of  the  workmen  approached 
very  cautiously  and  enquired  whether  his  men  were  free  to  go.  Idiot!'  Cecile 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  721  ] 

thundered.  'Close  up  the  doorways,  all  save  one,  and  fix  two  stout  crossbars 
to  that!' 

"In  a  day  the  final  alterations  were  completed,  and  without  risking  an- 
other consultation  with  Alfred,  Cecile  sent  the  workmen  back  to  St. 
Mary's  City,  where  they  doubtless  still  relate  the  tale  of  their  curious  labors. 
As  soon  as  they  were  gone  Monsieur  entered  his  castle,  inspected  the  three 
bricked-up  doorways  to  make  certain  no  cracks  were  left  unsealed,  swung 
the  two  great  crossbars  to  and  fro  upon  their  pivots  to  assure  himself  of  their 
adequacy,  and  ascended  the  dark  stairs  to  his  sitting-room—all  the  habitable 
rooms  were  perforce  upstairs;  only  Cecile  slept  below,  away  from  the  window 
slits.  He  summoned  Alfred  to  him, 

"  'Is  it  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  be  altogether  secure  from  the  onslaughts 
of  the  salvage?  Is  it  not  gratifying  to  know  that  one's  home  is  in  sooth  a 
castle,  proof  against  the  most  furious  of  assaults?' 

"Alfred  held  his  peace, 

"  'Damn  you,  sir;  speak  upl  Do  we  not  rest  here  in  a  fortress  in  no  way 
vulnerable?' 

"Alfred  went  over  to  one  of  the  apertures  and  surveyed  the  scene  below. 

"'Answer  me!  If  there  is  a  gap  in  my  defenses  (which  of  course  there  is 
not),  I  command  you  to  tell  me,  or  by  our  Lord  I'll  have  yOu  flayed  alive!' 

"Alfred  was  afraid  to  turn  from  the  window,  but  he  said,  'There  is  one, 
Monsieur.* 

"Cecile  sprang  from  his  chair.  "Then  tell  me!' 

44  'I  should  rather  not,  Monsieur,  for  the  reason  that  it  is  irremediable. 
Absolutely  naught  is  to  be  done  about  it/ 

44  'You  have  gone  mad!'  Monsieur  Edouard  whispered.  'Nay,  I  see  it!  You 
say  these  things  to  torment  me;  to  make  me  spend  myself  into  poverty!  I  see 
the  plot,  sir!*  He  demanded  again  to  be  told,  but  Alfred  durst  not  speak. 
At  that  moment  there  was  a  sound  at  the  front  door:  someone  entered, 
and  in  the  room  the  two  men  heard  the  crossbars  swing  into  place  and 
soft  footsteps  ascend  the  stair.  Monsieur  Edouard  came  near  to  swooning. 

44  'What  shall  we  do?  The  salvages  are  in  the  house!  How  shall  we  escape?' 

"Alfred's  expression  was  apologetic.  'Where  many  exits  are,'  he  said,  'are 
many  entrances,  Monsieur;  where  but  one  entrance  is,  there  is  no  exit.' 

"Then  the  voice  of  Madame  Edouard  came  meekly  from  the  stair. 
'Cecile?  Would  you  please  have  Alfred  attend  those  crossbars?  I  find  them 
difficult  to  close/ 

"Her  husband  made  no  reply,  and  Sophie,  who  was  used  to  such  rebuffs, 
presently  returned  downstairs*  Alfred,  meanwhile,  had  gone  once  more  to 


[  722  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

the  embrasure,  and  now  Monsieur  Edouard,  his  heart  still  pounding,  crept 
up  behind  and  caught  him  under  the  shoulders.  The  servant  was  old  and 
frail;  the  master  middle-aged  and  robust:  albeit  the  opening  was  none  too 
large,  Cecile  soon  had  his  valet  squeezed  quite  through  it,  and  Alfred's  head 
was  entirely  smashed  upon  the  new  brick  terrace  below! 

"  'He  fell/  Cecile  announced  to  the  household  shortly  after,  and  no  one 
questioned  the  master's  diagnosis.  That  night  Monsieur  had  his  bedding 
shifted  from  the  first  floor  up  into  the  attic,  under  the  rafters,  where  despite 
the  poor  ventilation  he  retired  content  beside  the  great  hewn  piers.  Below, 
where  the  household  slumbered,  the  single  door  was  fastened  with  its 
double  crossbars.  Jacques,  the  new  valet,  assured  his  master  that  he  was  in 
every  way  invulnerable— ancj  Cecile  slept  soundly/' 

Henrietta  delivered  the  final  sentence  with  her  eyes  closed  and  her  voice 
sardonically  hushed.  There  was  a  pause,  and  then  Anna  cried,  "Is  that  the 
end,  Henrietta?" 

The  girl  pretended  surprise.  "Why  of  course  it  is!  That  is,  the  tale  ends 
there— what  could  Homer  add  to't?  As  for  the  history,  'tis  curious  enough, 
but  it  hath  the  nature  of  an  anticlimax.  The  Castle  burned  to  the  ground 
not  long  after,  from  the  inside  out,  and  my  grandfather  and  grandmother 
burned  with  it.  Maman  was  saved  by  Jacques,  that  some  folk  guessed  had 
set  the  fire;  he  raised  her  in  his  own  house  till  she  married  Papa,  and  pre- 
tended to  be  her  uncle  till  the  day  he  died.  Don't  you  think  a  castle  should 
last  longer  than  that?" 

The  three  listeners  praised  both  the  story  itself  and  Henrietta's  rendering 
of  it;  Ebenezer,  in  particular,  was  touched  by  her  combination  of  spirit, 
beauty,  and  wit,  and  was  surprised  to  discover  among  his  feelings  a  certain 
envy  for  McEvoy. 

"  'Twas  a  marvelous  tale,  well  told,"  he  said*  "and  as  nicely  pointed  as 
one  of  Aesop's.  Throw  wide  the  doors  and  let  the  pirates  in!"  Henrietta 
reminded  him  of  his  promise  to  surpass  it,  and  the  poet's  tone  grew  warm 
and  serious.  "  Tis  a  chore  that  gives  me  pleasure^  for  it  brings  you  closer 
to  Anna  and  me  than  ever  friendship  could." 

"Marry,  then  out  with't!"  Anna  too  regarded  him  wonderingly. 

"  'Tis  as  rare  and  happy  a  turn  as  e'er  the  dice  of  Chance  have  thrown/' 
Ebenezer  said.  "Your  mother,  Henrietta,  is  that  same  Roxanne  our  father 
once  saved  from  drowning  in  the  Choptankl  She— she  was  our  wet  nurse 
after  Mother  .died  a-bearing  me  and  her  own  child  died  a-bearing,  and  till 
the  fourth  year  of  our  life,  when  Father  fetched  us  back  to  England,  she 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  723  ] 

was  as  much  to  us  as  any  mother  could  be!"  He  finished  his  revelation 
with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"Dear  Heav'n!"  Mary  whispered.  "Is  that  true?"  Anna  and  Henrietta 
clasped  hands  and  regarded  each  other  with  astonishment. 

Ebenezer  nodded.  "Aye,  'tis  true,  and  haply  it  sheds  some  light  upon 
Mrs.  Russecks's  shifting  attitudes  toward  us.  Father  told  me  the  story  just 
before  I  left:  Roxanne's  uncle— that  is  to  say,  this  rascal  Jacques— must  have 
been  a  man  of  Sir  Harry's  temper,  inasmuch  as  he  guarded  her  in  the  way 
Henrietta  hath  been  guarded,  and  when  Nature  slipped  through  his  de- 
fenses, as  is  her  wont,  he  turned  Roxanne  out  to  starve."  He  related  quickly 
what  Andrew  had  told  him  of  the  rescue  and  Roxanne's  unusual  indenture- 
terms.  "There  were  some  lying  rumors  after  Mother  died  that  Roxanne 
had  become  his  mistress,"  he  concluded.  "In  part,  'twas  to  give  these 
slanders  the  lie  he  left  Cooke's  Point  for  London.  I  recall  his  saying  that 
Roxanne's  'uncle*  had  approached  him  with  apologies  and  begged  for  her 
to  come  back  to  him;  he  was  supposed  to  have  arranged  a  good  match 
for  her." 

Henrietta  winced.  "With  Papa!"  Mary  shook  her  head  and  sighed. 

"Aye,"  the  poet  affirmed.  "This  Jacques,  evidently,  was  indebted  to  Harry 
Russecks  and  hoped  thus  to  settle  his  obligations.  To  be  sure,  Roxanne 
had  no  need  to  consent;  but  she  told  me  not  long  since  that  she  had 
come  to  loathe  all  men  and  wed  Sir  Harry  in  effect  to  mortify  her  sex  and 
gratify  this  loathing.  She  was  much  attached  to  Anna  and  me,  whom 
she'd  raised  as  her  own  children,  and  I  daresay  she  felt  abandoned,  in  a 
sense,  .  ,  ." 

"In  every  sense/'  Mrs.  Russecks's  voice  came  from  the  hallway  stairs  and 
was  followed  by  the  lady  herself,  who  had  clearly  overheard  the  conversa- 
tion. Ebenezer  rose  quickly  from  his  chair  and  apologized  for  speaking 
indiscreetly* 

"Thou'rt  guilty  of  nothing,"  Mrs.  Russecks  said,  looking  past  him  to 
her  daughter. "  'Tis  you  that  have  been  naughty,  Henrietta,  to  tell  tales  out 

of  school "  She  got  no  farther,  for  Henrietta  ran  weeping  to  embrace 

her  mother  and  beg  forgiveness;  yet  it  was  clear  that  the  girl's  emotion  was 
not  contrition  for  any  misdemeanor,  but  sympathy  and  love  inspired  by 
what  she  had  learned,  Mrs.  Russecks  kissed  her  forehead  and  turned  her 
eyes  for  the  first  time,  eager  and  yet  pained,  to  the  twins;  she  managed  to 
control  her  feelings  until  Anna  too  was  moved  to  embrace  her,  whereupon 
she  cried  "Sweet  babes!"  and  surrendered  freely  to  her  tears. 

There  ensued  such  a  general  chorus  of  weeping,  in  which  Ebenezer  and 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 


Mary  Mungummory  participated  as  well,  that  for  some  minutes  no  other 
sound  was  heard  in  the  millhouse.  Everyone  embraced  everyone  else,  not  in 
communal  lamentation  but  in  mutual  catharsis;  in  the  spirit  summed  up  by 
Ebenezer,  the  first  to  speak  when  the  crest  of  the  flood  had  passed  and 
everyone  was  sniffling  privately. 

"Sunt  lacrimae  rerum"  he  declared,  wiping  his  eyes.  'Things  must  be 
wept  for." 

But  the  day's  surprises  were  not  done.  As  soon  as  Mrs.  Russecks  had 
satisfied,  for  the  moment,  her  hunger  to  embrace  the  twins  and  beg  pardon 
for  her  previous  aloofness—  refraining,  as  did  Ebenezer,  from  any  allusion  to 
her  now  quite  embarrassing  attempt  to  seduce  him,  as  well  as  to  her  own 
seduction  by  Anna's  supposed  lover  Burlingame,  either  of  which  in  itself 
could  account  for  her  distress—  she  joined  them  at  the  tea  table,  confessed 
that  she  had  overheard  everything,  and  said  to  Ebenezer,  "You  made  good 
your  vow  to  surpass  Henrietta's  story  with  a  postscript,  Eben  (FGod,  how 
can  my  babies  have  grown  so!  And  what  trials  have  they  not  suffered!); 
but  I  believe  I  may  yet  snatch  back  the  prize  with  a  postscript  of  my  own, 
To  begin  with,  that  'vicious  lying  gossip'  about  your  father  and  myself— 
'twas  gossip  in  sooth,  and  vicious,  but  it  was  no  lie.  For  three  years  after 
poor  Anne's  death—  that  was  their  mother,  Henrietta—  Andrew  and  I 
mourned  her  together,  for  methinks  I  was  no  less  devoted  to  her  than  was 
he.  But  in  the  fourth  year—  i'faith,  I  loved  him  then,  and  hinted  vainly  at 
betrothal!—  in  the  fourth  year  I  was  in  sooth  his  mistress.  Prithee  forgive 
me  fort!" 

Both  twins  embraced  her  again  and  declared  there  was  nothing  to  for- 
give. "On  the  contrary,"  Ebenezer  said  grimly,  "'tis  my  father  needs  for-* 
giving.  I  see  now  what  you  meant  by  saying  you  were  abandoned  in  every 
sense." 

"Nay,"  Mrs.  Russecks  said,  "there  is  more  .  ,  ."  She  raised  her  eyes 
painfully  to  Mary,  whose  face  suddenly  changed  from  deep-frowned  reflec- 
tion to  understanding. 

"Ah,  God,  Roxie!" 

Mrs.  Russecks  nodded.  "You  have  guessed  it,  my  dear/'  She  sniffed,  took 
both  of  Henrietta's  hands  in  hers  across  the  table,  and  looked  unfalteringly 
at  her  daughter  as  she  spoke.  "Twice  in  my  life  I've  loved  a  man. 
The  first  was  Benjy  Long,  a  pretty  farmer-boy  that  lived  near  Uncle 
Jacques:  he  it  was  I  gave  my  maidenhead  to,  when  I  was  sixteen,  and  anon 
conceived  his  child;  he  it  was  ran  off  to  sea  when  I  would  not  cross  my 
guardian's  wishes,  nor  have  I  heard  of  him  from  that  day  to  this;  and  he  it 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  725  ] 

is,  methinks,  that  still  hath  letters-patent  to  my  heart— though  I  daresay  he's 
either  long  since  fat  and  married  or  long  since  dead!"  She  laughed  briefly 
and  then  grew  sad  again.  "Shall  I  prove  to  you  that  time  is  no  cure  for 
folly?  To  this  hour  I  cannot  give  o'er  expecting  him  to  come  for  me;  often 
and  often,  when  Andrew  left  me  and  when  Harry  would  abuse  me,  I'd  pray 
to  little  Benjy  as  to  God,  and  to  this  hour  my  poor  heart  falters  when  a 

stranger  comes  to  call "  She  smiled  at  Ebenezer.  "Especially  if  he  calls 

himself  Sir  Benjaminl" 

"Ah,  Christ,  forgive  me!"  Ebenezer  pleaded.  Mrs.  Russecks  indicated  with 
a  gesture  that  there  was  nothing  to  pardon  and  returned  her  attention  to 
Henrietta.  "That  was  my  first  love;  Andrew  was  the  other,  and  by  far  the 
greater,  but  merely  to  think  of  him  drives  me  near  to  madness  .  .  ."  She 
paused  to  recompose  herself,  "Let  me  put  it  thus,  my  dears:  this  second  love 
affair  was  in  essence  like  the  first,  save  for  two  important  differences.  One, 
as  you  know  already,  is  that  my  lover  abandoned  me .  .  ."  She  squeezed  her 
daughter's  hands.  "The  other  difference  is  that  this  time  the  baby  lived." 


18:    THE  POET  WONDERS  WHETHER  THE  COURSE  OF 
HUMAN  HISTORY  IS  A  PROGRESS,  A  DRAMA,  A 
RETROGRESSION,  A  CYCLE,  AN  UNDULATION,  A 
VORTEX,  A  RIGHT-  OR  LEFT-HANDED  SPIRAL,  A  MERE 
CONTINUUM,  OR  WHAT  HAVE  YOU.  CERTAIN 
EVIDENCE  IS  BROUGHT  FORWARD,  BUT  OF  AN 
AMBIGUOUS  AND  INCONCLUSIVE  NATURE 


THE  IMPORT  OF  MRS.  RUSSECKS'S  LAST  REMARK— THAT  IS,  THAT  HENRI- 

etta  was  her  child  by  Andrew  Cooke  and  thus  half-sister  to  the  twins- 
occasioned  a  new  round  of  joyful  and  sympathetic  embraces.  Mrs.  Russecks 
apologized  to  Ebenezer  and  Anna  for  having  transferred  her  resentment 
to  them,  and  they  apologized  in  turn  for  their  father's  ungentlemanly  be- 
havior of  two  dozen  years  earlier;  Henrietta  begged  her  mother's  retroactive 
forgiveness  for  all  the  times  she  (Henrietta)  had  inveighed  against  her  for 
marrying  Russecks,  and  Roxanne  begged  reciprocal  forgiveness  for  having 
conceived  her  out  of  wedlock  as  well  as  for  the  double  injury  of  subjecting 
her  to  Sir  Harry's  maltreatment  and  obliging  her  to  believe  she  was  his 
daughter*  Even  Mary  was  included,  for  the  well-kept  secret  had  caused  oc- 


[  726  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

casional  misunderstandings  on  both  sides  during  her  long  friendship  with 
the  miller's  wife.  There  being  no  wine  on  the  premises,  when  all  were 
shriven  and  embraced,  a  new  pot  of  tea  was  boiled  for  celebratory  use,  and, 
alternately  shy  and  demonstrative,  the  new  relatives  talked  long  into  the 
evening.  For  all  her  avowed  hatred  of  Andrew  Cooke,  Roxanne  was  ex- 
ceedingly curious  about  his  life  in  England  and  his  present  highly  ques- 
tionable position;  she  deplored  the  injustices  of  which  Ebenezer  had  been 
the  victim  and  wept  every  time  she  thought  of  what  Anna  had  suffered 
on  Sir  Harry's  account.  That  night,  moreover,  Anna  and  Henrietta,  who 
slept  together,  must  each  have  taken  the  other  completely  into  her  con- 
fidence, for  Ebenezer  was  surprised  to  observe  next  morning  that  they  spoke 
freely  of  Henry  Burlingame.  At  breakfast  the  three  young  people  were  in 
almost  hilarious  spirits:  Ebenezer  traded  Hudibrastics  with  Henrietta,  whom 
he  found  to  have  a  real  gift  for  satire,  and  Anna  declared  herself  totally 
unconcerned  about  the  future— as  far  as  she  was  concerned,  Roxanne  was 
her  mother  too,  and  she  would  be  content  if  she  never  saw  Maiden  or  her 
father  again.  Roxanne  and  Mary  looked  on  joyfully,  wiping  their  eyes  on 
an  apron-hem  from  time  to  time. 

By  midmorning  it  had  been  decided  that  the  Russeckses  would  travel 
with  the  Cookes  to  Anne  Arundel  Town  as  soon  as  McEvoy  returned  from 
Bloodsworth  Island;  there  Roxanne  and  Henrietta  would  remain  until  the 
miller's  estate  was  sold,  whereupon  they  (and,  Henrietta  hinted  demurely, 
perhaps  McEvoy)  would  sail  for  England  and  a  new  life.  Ebenezer  would 
carry  his  urgent  message  to  Governor  Nicholson  and,  if  the  situation  war- 
ranted, plead  for  gubernatorial  restitution  of  his  estate  on  the  grounds  that 
it  was  being  used  for  activities  subversive  to  the  welfare  of  the  Province; 
if  his  appeal  bore  no  fruit  or  his  father  proved  unrelenting,  he  and  Anna 
would  leave  Maryland  also  as  members  of  Roxanne's  family,  and  he  would 
endeavor  to  find  employment  in  London.  Henry  Burlingame  and  Joan 
Toast,  though  they  weighed  heavily  on  the  twins'  minds,  were  provisionally 
excluded  from  their  plans,  since  the  whereabouts  of  the  fonner  and  the 
attitude  of  the  latter  were  uncertain. 

Their  spirits  were  lifted  even  higher  by  the  appearance,  shortly  after 
noontime,  of  McEvoy  and  Bertrand,  who  announced  that  Captain  Cairn 
was  waiting  with  his  sloop  in  the  creek  to  ferry  them  anywhere  in  the  world. 
McEvoy  kissed  Henrietta  ardently,  and  her  mother  as  well,  and  Bertrand 
embraced  his  master  with  speechless  gratitude. 

"Would  ye  fancy  it?"  McEvoy  laughed,  "Those  wretches  thought  we'd 
left  'em  stranded!  When  they  saw  me  ride  in  with  old  Bill-o'-the-Goose 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  727  ] 

they  reckoned  I'd  been  captured  again,  and  commenced  to  give  ye  what- 
for!"  His  face  darkened  for  a  moment,  and  while  Bertrand  (who,  aside  from 
an  unwonted  scrub  of  beard  and  general  dishevelment,  looked  little  the 
worse  for  his  ordeal)  professed  his  delight  at  seeing  Miss  Anna  safe  and 
sound,  he  confided  to  Ebenezer,  "  Twas  all  Dick  Parker  and  the  others 
could  manage  to  get  us  out  alive;  our  friend  Billy  Rumbly  hath  gone 
salvage  altogether,  and  would  have  had  us  murthered  on  the  spot!" 

Ebenezer  sighed.  "I  feared  as  much.  I  suppose  he'll  inflame  the  Ahatch- 
whoops  even  farther/' 

"Aye."  McEvoy  displayed  a  new  fishbone  ring  of  the  sort  that  had  saved 
Ebenezer.  "Chicamec  gave  me  this  for  retrieving  his  son,  and  Dick  Parker 
gave  another  to  Bertrand,  but  I'd  not  give  a  farthing  for  its  protection 
when  the  war  comes— and  'twill  come  sooner  now  than  before,  with  Master 
Cohunkowprets  at  the  helm.  I  mean  to  sail  out  o'  this  miserable  province 
the  minute  I  have  my  freight,  and  Henrietta's  going  with  me  if  I  have  to 
kidnap  her."  He  blushed,  for  his  last  remark  had  chanced  to  fall  into  a  pause 
in  the  general  conversation  and  was  heard  by  all. 

"I  hope  you  shan't  need  such  drastic  measures."  Ebenezer  laughed.  "Nor 
is't  likely  I'd  permit  you  to  treat  my  sister  so  unchivalrously!"  He  proceeded 
to  dumfound  his  companion  with  the  news  of  his  relationship  to  Henrietta 
and  the  party's  plans  for  the  immediate  future. 

"I  vow  and  declare,  Eben,  ye  frighten  me!"  He  looked  at  Henrietta  with 
awe,  "Nay,  methinks  I  should  steal  her  away  all  the  sooner,  ere  ye  discover 
me  for  your  brother  as  well!" 

As  soon  as  all  the  salutation  had  been  got  over,  Mrs.  Russecks  suggested 
that  Bertrand  be  dispatched  to  summon  the  Captain  for  dinner  as  well  as 
for  protection  from  the  pirates,  against  whose  rumored  presence  the  village 
had  taken  such  a  posture  of  defense.  The  valet  was  much  alarmed  by  this 
last  disclosure,  but  McEvoy  scoffed  at  the  idea. 

"If  there  were  any  pirates  about,  they'd  have  taken  us  ere  now;  we  were 
the  only  ship  in  sight  from  Limbo  Straits  to  Church  Creek!  In  any  case,  the 
Captain's  not  likely  to  be  aboard;  he  wanted  to  recruit  himself  a  crew  that 
knows  more  about  crewing  than  Bertrand  and  myself." 

Everyone  except  Bertrand  and  Mrs,  Russecks  joined  McEvoy  in  minimiz- 
ing the  threat  of  piracy,  and  upon  Mary's  offering,  at  dinner,  to  oversee  the 
closing  of  the  millhouse  and  the  sale  of  the  inn  (which  latter  property  she 
herself  expressed  some  interest  in),  the  party  resolved  to  set  sail  for  Anne 
Arundel  Town  that  same  afternoon  if  possible. 

'The  sooner  I  leave  Church  Creek  behind,  the  better,"  Henrietta  said, 


[728]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

and  McEvoy,  perhaps  something  less  than  altruistically,  observed  that  Billy 
Rumbly's  defection  made  it  even  more  urgent  to  apprise  Nicholson  of  the 
situation  at  once. 

"Nonetheless,"  Roxanne  declared,.  "I  can't  help  trembling  at  the  thought 
of  pirates.  All  of  us  here,  save  Maiy,  have  been  captured  once  before  and 
cruelly  used  and  escaped  by  the  skin  of  our  teeth:  'tis  not  likely  well  be  so 
lucky  a  second  time." 

"Aye/'  the  poet  agreed.  "But  by  the  same  token  'tis  less  than  likely  such  a 
catastrophe  could  befall  the  same  party  twice  in's  life."  He  went  on,  partly 
in  good-natured  irony  and  partly  to  divert  the  woman  from  her  fears,  to 
speak  of  sundry  theories  of  history— the  retrogressive,  held  by  Dante  and 
Hesiod;  the  dramatic,  held  by  the  Hebrews  and  the  Christian  fathers;  the 
progressive,  held  by  Virgil;  the  cyclical,  held  by  Plato  and  Ecclesiasticus; 
the  undulatory,  and  even  the  vortical  hypothesis  entertained,  according  to 
Henry  Burlingame,  by  a  gloomy  neo-Platonist  of  Christ's  College,  who  be- 
lieved that  the  cyclic  periods  of  history  were  growing  ever  shorter  and  thus 
that  at  some  not-unpredictable  moment  in  the  future  the  universe  would 
go  rigid  and  explode,  just  as  the  legendary  bird  called  Ouida  (so  said 
Burlingame)  was  reputed  to  fly  in  ever-diminishing  circles  until  at  the  end 
he  disappeared  into  his  own  fundament.  "The  true  and  proper  cyclist,"  he 
averred,  "ought  not  to  fear  being  taken  sgaifc  by  pirates,  inasmuch  as  his 
theory  will  loose  him  from  their  clutches  as  before;  if  you  fear  we'll  be 
recaptured  and  done  to  death,  'tis  plain  you  believe  the  course  of  things  to 
be  a  sort  of  downward  spiral— whether  right-  or  left-handed  I  can't  deter- 
mine without  farther  enquiry." 

By  dint  of  these  and  like  sophistical  cajolements  Mrs.  Russecks  was,  if 
not  encouraged,  at  least  quieted;  after  dinner  the  women's  trunks  and  chests 
were  loaded  onto  Mary's  wagon  and  drawn  by  Aphrodite  through  the  deso- 
late little  village  to  a  landing  down  on  the  creek,  where  Captain  Cairn's 
sloop  was  moored. 

"Hallo,  where  is  the  Captain?"  Ebenezer  asked. 

"He  said  we  were  to  wait  aboard  for  him  if  he  had  trouble  finding  a 
crew,"  McEvoy  said.  "Methinks  he'll  have  trouble  finding  anyone  in  yonder 
village!" 

When  they  had  transferred  their  gear  from  the  wagon  to  the  deck,  Mary 
Mungummory  declared  with  a  wink  at  Ebenezer  that,  her  errand  in  Church 
Creek  having  failed  in  its  object,  she  too  must  needs  address  herself  to  the 
task  of  finding  a  crew.  If  she  was  successful,  she  said,  her  itgular  circuit  of 
the  county  would  bring  her  to  Cooke's  Point  a  few  days  hence,  where  she 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  J2Q  ] 

promised  to  plead  the  poet's  case  to  Joan  Toast,  inquire  as  to  the  where- 
abouts of  Henry  Burlingame,  and  relay  any  news  to  Anne  Arundel  Town. 
She  wished  them  all  success  in  their  embassy  to  the  Governor,  for  her  own 
sake  as  well  as  theirs,  and  after  an  exchange  of  the  most  affectionate  fare- 
wells—especially with  Roxanne,  Henrietta,  and  Ebenezer—  she  returned  up 
the  path  towards  the  settlement. 

Ebenezer  surveyed  the  familiar  deck.  "Thank  Heav'n  the  weather's  fine: 
my  last  voyage  on  this  ship  was  a  harrowing  one!"  He  noticed  that  Bertrand, 
who  had  been  unusually  subdued  throughout  the  day,  now  looked  quite 
downcast,  and  asked  him  teasingly  whether  he  had  seen  the  Moor  Boabdil 
in  the  myrtle  bushes, 

44  'Sheart,  sir,"  the  valet  complained,  "I  had  almost  as  lief  be  back  with 
old  Tom  Pound  as  travel  about  in  Maryland." 

"Why,  how  is  that?" 

Bertrand  replied  that  though  he  was  eternally  obliged  to  his  master  for, 
among  other  things,  effecting  his  release  from  Bloodsworth  Island,  it  was 
really  a  matter  of  frying-pan  into  fire,  for  old  Colonel  Robotham  would 
surely  do  him  to  death  upon  discovering  that  Miss  Lucy  was  wed  not  to 
the  Poet  Laureate  at  all,  but  to  a  servingman  whose  plebeian  astrolabe  had 
already  taken  the  azimuth  and  alnicanter  of  her  singular  constellation. 

"You've  done  the  lass  a  great  injustice/'  Ebenezer  admitted,  "but  I'm 
scarcely  the  man  to  reprove  you  for't,  and  the  Colonel  is  far  from  blameless 
in  the  matter  himself*  Methinks  a  marriage  under  such  false  pretense  can 
be  annulled  e'en  after  consummation,  and  I've  no  great  fear  of  Lucy's  claim 
to  Maiden;  but  I  pity  the  poor  tart  for  being  twice  deceived  with  a  babe 
in  her  belly,  Tis  your  affair,  of  course;  yet  I  could  wish God* s  body!" 

From  the  stern  of  the  sloop,  where  McEvoy  had  taken  the  ladies  to  wait 
for  the  Captain's  return,  came  a  tumult  of  shrieks,  squeals,  and  curses. 
Ebenezer  hastened  aft  to  investigate  and  found  himself  confronted  by  a 
man  whose  appearance  from  the  tiny  cabin  set  his  knees  a-tremble  and 
prostrated  Bertrand  upon  the  deck:  a  stout  little  man  dressed  in  black  from 
beard  to  boots,  with  a  pistol  in  one  hand  and  an  ebony  stick  in  the  other. 

"Well,  marry  come  up!"  the  fellow  marveled.  "Will  ye  look  who's  here, 
Captain  Scurry?" 

His  counterpart  emerged  onto  the  stern  sheets,  also  brandishing  a  pistol 
and  supporting  himself  on  a  stick,  "Fcod,  Captain  Stye,  we've  a  bloody  crew 
to  go  with  our  pilot!"  He  drew  closer  and  smiled  evilly  at  Ebenezer.  "I  say, 
Captain  Stye,  'tis  the  very  wretch  that  fouled  his  drawers  in  the  King  o'  the 
Seas!" 


[  yjo  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"The  same,"  said  Captain  Slye,  "And  that  craven  puppy  yonder  is  our 
friend  the  false  laureate,  that  bilked  us  for  a  carriage-ride  to  Plymouth!" 

The  two  rejoiced  in  the  most  unpleasant  manner  imaginable  at  having 
accidentally  caught  up  with  three  old  acquaintances— they  had  already  rec- 
ognized McEvoy  as  the  redemptioner  who  had  so  plagued  them  on  their 
last  crossing.  Captain  Cairn,  his  countenance  stricken,  appeared  on  deck 
at  their  order,  and  the  party  was  assembled  in  the  waist  of  the  vessel 

"God  forgive  me!"  the  Captain  cried  to  Ebenezer.  "I  went  to  sign  me  a 
crew,  and  these  rogues  set  upon  mel" 

"Now,  now,"  Captain  Scurry  admonished,  "there's  no  way  to  speak  o' 
thy  shipmates,  sir!  Our  friend  Captain  Avery  lies  yonder  in  the  lee  o'  James 
Island  and  wants  a  pilot  up  the  Bay,  and  inasmuch  as  Captain  Slye  and 
myself  was  steering  southwards,  we  promised  to  find  him  one.  Tis  no  more 
than  any  captain  should  do  for  another." 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do  with  us?"  Ebenezer  asked. 

"What  do?"  echoed  Captain  Slye.  "Ah  well,  sir,  as  thou'rt  the  Laureate 
o'  Maryland— ah,  ye  thought  your  friend  John  Coode  would  not  betray  ye, 
eh?  What  would  ye  say  if  I  told  ye  he  weren't  John  Coode  at  all,  but  merely 
one  o'  Coode's  lieutenants?  D'ye  think  Fd  not  know  my  own  wife's  father? 
Mark  the  man's  trembling!  Methinks  he'll  smirch  his  drawers  anon!  What 
shall  we  do  with  the  merry  lot,  Captain  Scuny?" 

His  partner  chuckled.  "Now,  we  might  eat  'em  alive  for  supper,  Captain 
Slye,  or  we  might  just  put  a  ball  in'  each  jack's  belly  .  .  " 

"Set  the  women  ashore,"  the  poet  said.  "You've  no  quarrel  with  thenu" 

Captain  Scurry  admitted  that  he  had  neither  quarrel  with  nor  appetite  for 
any  female  on  the  planet,  but  that  he  would  not  impose  his  personal  tastes 
upon  Captain  Avery  and  his  crew,  who  having  made  a  lengthy  ocean  cross- 
ing would  not  be  likely  to  refuse  the  blandishments  of  three  so  toothsome 
ladies.  He  proposed  to  Captain  Slye  that  the  entire  party,  excluding  Captain 
Cairn,  be  cargoed  into  the  hold  and  their  final  disposition  left  to  the  pirates. 

Having  had  no  prior  experience  of  privateers,  Anna  Cooke  seemed  merely 
dazed  by  what  was  taking  place,  but  Roxanne  and  Henrietta  clung  to  each 
other  and  redoubled  their  lamentations.  To  all  entreaties  the  kidnapers 
replied  with  a  sneer,  and  the  hapless  prisoners  were  obliged  to  descend  into 
the  cramped  and  lightless  hold  of  the  sloop,  which  stank  of  oysters,  McEvoy 
embraced  Henrietta  in  an  effort  to  comfort  her,  and  Ebenezer  did  likewise 
to  Anna;  Bertrand  and  Mrs.  Russecks  had  to  deal  with  their  terrors  unas- 
sisted, and  it  is  surely  to  the  latter's  credit  that  she  never  once  mentioned 
the  downward-spiral  theory  of  history,  which  was  much  on  the  anguished 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  731  ] 

poet's  conscience.  Over  their  heads  they  heard  Slye  and  Scurry  agree  to 
move  the  sloop  from  Church  Creek  out  into  Fishing  Creek  lest  any  vil- 
lagers hear  the  prisoners*  complaints,  but  to  wait  until  nightfall  before  run- 
ning down  the  Little  Choptank  to  their  rendezvous  with  Captain  Avery. 

A  long  while  they  languished  silent  in  despair  as  black  and  exitless  as 
their  prison.  Then  when  the  sloop  got  under  way  Anna  began  to  whimper, 
and  her  brother  was  moved  to  say,  "What  a  wretched  thing  is  happiness! 

How  I  contemn  it!  An  interlude  such  as  ours  of  the  past  few  days 

'Sheart,  'tis  a  shaded  waterhole  on  the  desert  track  of  life!  The  traveler 
mistrusts  his  fortune;  shocked  by  the  misery  he  hath  passed,  sickened  by 
the  misery  yet  to  come,  he  rests  but  fitfully;  the  dates  lie  like  pebbles  in  his 
stomach;  the  water  turns  foul  upon  his  tongue.  Thus  him  whose  dogged 
fancy  gives  purpose  to  the  journey;  but  on  this  path,  who  is  no  pilgrim 
is  perforce  a  vagrant,  and  woe  to  us  less  blest!  For  us  'tis  causeless  martyrdom, 
ananabasis,  and  when  Chance  vouchsafes  some  niggard  respite  shq  earns  our 
anger,  not  our  gratitude.  Show  me  the  happy  man  who  is  neither  foolish  nor 
asleepl" 

If  his  companions  understood  this  apostrophe,  they  did  not  respond  to  it. 
Anna  proposed  that  the  three  women  destroy  themselves  at  the  earliest 
opportunity  rather  than  suffer  mass  ravishment  by  the  pirates. "  Tis  not  that 
I  choose  death  to  dishonor/'  she  explained.  "My  virginity  means  naught  to 
me,  but  inasmuch  as  they'll  surely  murther  us  after,  I'd  as  lief  die  now  and 
have  done  with't.  If  Eben  will  not  throttle  me,  I  mean  to  drown  myself  the 
moment  they  fetch  us  on  deck/' 

Everyone  protested  except  Ebenezer,  who  could  only  strike  his  brow  and 
groan.  McEvoy  argued  that  since  death  was  certain,  life  was  the  only  value, 
and  ought  to  be  clung  to  at  any  cost;  Anna  retorted  that  since  death  was 
certain,  life  had,  on  the  contrary,  no  value  whatever,  and  an  additional 
hour  of  torture  was  surely  not  worth  living  for, 

"La,  girl,"  Mrs.  Russecks  scoffed  from  across  the  black  enclosure,  "put 
such  notions  out  o*  thy  pretty  head!  Suppose  Henrietta  and  I  had  taken  our 
lives  when  Tom  Pound  captured  us?  We'd  not  be  here  today!" 

There  was  general,  if  grim,  laughter  at  the  unintended  irony  of  this  re- 
mark, but  Mrs,  Russecks  insisted  that  anything— even  ten  years  as  a  sea-going 
concubine— VMS  endurable  so  long  as  one  could  hope  for  ultimate  improve- 
ment, "We've  no  assurance  they  mean  to  murther  us/'  she  said.  "Ffaith, 
we're  not  even  raped  yet!" 

Sensing  that  Anna's  resolve  was  beginning  to  falter,  Ebenezer  pursued 
this  point  "Do  you  recall  when  we  read  Euripides  with  Henry,  how  we 


[  732  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

contemned  The  Trojan  Women  out  of  hand?  Hecuba  we  called  a  self- 
pitying  frump,  and  Andromache  either  a  coward  or  a  hypocrite.  If  she  loves 
her  Hector  so,  how  is't  she  lets  this  wretched  Pyrrhus  make  her  his  whore? 
Why  not  take  her  own  life  and  save  the  family  honor?'  What  unrelenting 
moralists  children  are!  What  inflexible  judges!  But  I  tell  you,  Anna,  I  con- 
temn the  woman  no  more.  We  praise  the  martyr;  he  is  our  shame  and  our 
exemplar;  but  who  among  us  fallen  will  embrace  him?  What's  more,  there  is 
a  high  moral  in  Andtomache;  her  tears  indict  the  bloody  circus  of  man's  lust; 
her  sigh  drowns  out  the  shouts  of  a  thousand  heroes;  her  resignation  turns 
Hellas  into  Vanity  Fair." 

Ebenezer  himself  was  not  so  persuaded  by  this  argument  as  he  hoped 
Anna  would  be.  Committing  suicide  merely  to  escape  pain  he  could  not  but 
regard  as  cowardly,  though  he  understood  and  readily  sympathized  with 
such  cowardice;  suicide  as  a  point  of  honor,  on  the  other  hand,  like  martyr- 
dom, made  him  uneasy.  The  martyr,  it  seemed  to  him,  was  in  a  sense  un- 
natural, since  blind  Nature  has  neither  codes  nor  causes;  it  was  from  this 
point  of  view  that  Andromache,  like  Ecclesiasticus,  appeared  the  more 
sophisticated  moralist,  and  heroes  of  every  stamp  seemed  drunkards  or  mad- 
men. Yet  the  very  un-Naturalness,  the  vanity,  the  hubris,  as  it  were,  of  hero- 
ism in  general  and  martyrdom  in  particular  were  their  most  appealing 
qualities;  granted  that  the  Earth,  as  Burlingame  was  fond  of  pointing  out, 
is  "a  dust-mote  whirling  through  the  night,"  there  was  something  brave, 
defiantly  human,  about  the  passengers  on  this  dust-mote  who  perished  for 
some  dream  of  Value.  If  from  Andromache's  point  of  view  they  seemed 
insane,  from  their  own  they  were  godlike;  her  "Nature"  was  precisely  their 
enemy,  and  her  fatalism  a  surrender  to  oblivion.  In  a  word,  their  behavior 
was  quixotic:  to  die,  to  risk  death,  even  to  raise  a  finger  for  any  Cause  was 
to  pennon  one's  lance  with  the  riband  of  Purpose,  so  the  poet  judged, 
and  had  about  it  the  same  high  lunacy  of  a  tilt  with  Manchegan  windmills. 

But  if  his  words  were  not  altogether  heartfelt,  his  purpose  was,  and 
sensing  that  his  arguments  had  had  some  effect  on  Anna,  he  returned  to 
them  several  hours  later  when  the  sloop  was  under  way  again— presumably 
to  James  Island.  "I  beg  you  to  think  of  one  thing  only:  Reason  aside,  is 
there  aught  on  earth  you  prize?  Suppose  us  safe  in  Anne  Arundel  Town: 
what  would  you  wish  for  then?" 

"Some  years  of  peace,"  Anna  replied  unhesitatingly.  "I've  no  use  any 
longer  for  estates  or  e'en  for  a  husband,  since— since  Henry  is  denied  me. 
What  can  they  matter,  after  all  that  hath  occurred?  In  time,  perhaps>  new 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  733  ] 

goals  may  beckon,  but  just  now  I  should  wish  to  live  some  years  in  utter 
peace." 

Ebenezer  stirred.  "How  my  heart  responds  to  that  ambition!  But  stay, 
there  is  my  point:  if  aught  in  life  hath  value  to  us,  we  must  not  give  o'er  its 
pursuit." 

He  felt  Anna  tremble.  "Tis  not  worth  the  costl" 

"Nor  is  aught  else" 

She  wet  his  hand  with  tears.  "If  I  must  suffer  what  I  shall,  then  I  amend 
my  wish:  I  wish  we  two  were  the  only  folk  on  earth!" 

"Eve  and  Adam?"  The  poet's  face  burned,  "So  be  it;  but  we  must  be 
God  as  well,  and  build  a  universe  to  hold  our  Garden." 

Anna  squeezed  his  hand. 

"What  I  mean,"  he  said,  "we  must  cling  to  life  and  search  each  moment 
for  escape  .  .  ," 

Anna  shook  her  head,  "Anon  they'll  run  you  through  and  throw  you  to 
the  fishes,  and  I  .  *  „  Nay,  Eben!  This  present  hour  is  all  our  future,  and 
this  black  cave  our  only  Garden,  Anon  the/11  tear  our  innocence  from 
us  ..." 

He  sensed  her  eyes  upon  him.  "Dear  God!  I  am  rent  to  pieces!" 

Just  then  a  shout  came  down  from  above,  answered  by  another  off  in 
the  distance:  the  rendezvous  had  been  made.  All  three  women  wailed  at 
once. 

"Make  hostel"  cried  Anna. 

The  poet  groaned*  "You  must  forgive  me " 

Anna  shrieked  and  fled  on  hands  and  knees  across  the  hold;  a  few  minutes 
later,  when  the  hatch-cover  was  lifted  and  a  lantern  held  down  the  ladder- 
way,  Ebenezer  saw  her  shuddering  in  the  arms  of  Mrs.  Russecks. 

"Ah,  now,"  said  the  lantern-bearer,  "I  do  despise  to  be  a  spoilsport,  but 
Captain  Avery  wishes  to  speak  to  the  six  of  ye  on  deck.  He  hath  offered 
to  torture  the  ladies  at  once  if  ye  do  not  come  promptly  and  civilly,  sirs." 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  the  prisoners  complied,  urged  on  by  Hen- 
rietta and  Mrs.  Russecks.  Night  had  fallen,  and  a  strong,  cold  breeze  had 
blown  up  out  of  the  west;  for  all  the  turmoil  in  his  head,  Ebenezer  was 
surprised  to  observe  that  the  sloop  had  not  anchored  but  only  come  up  "in 
irons"  some  distance  from  the  pirate  ship,  whose  lights  could  be  seen  several 
hundred  yards  ahead.  Slye  and  Scurry  had  picked  up  a  small  party,  and  the 
prisoners  were  instructed  to  stand  fast  amidships  while  the  vessel  was  got 
under  way  again.  The  poet's  heart  lifted:  could  it  be  that  they  were  not  to 
be  transf  erred  to  the  other  ship? 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Captain  Cairn,  who  happened  to  pass  nearby,  confirmed  his  hope.  'Tin  to 
pilot  their  Captain  up  the  Bay/'  he  murmured,  "lest  his  ship  be  spied  and 
taken."  He  could  say  no  more,  for  the  pirates  sent  him  aft  to  tend  the  main- 
sheet.  Captain  Slye  and  Captain  Scurry  bid  the  prisoners  a  sneering  fare- 
well and  departed  in  a  dinghy  to  their  own  ship,  which  presumably  lay 
with  Avery's  Phansie  in  the  lee  of  the  island.  Darkness  prevented  Ebenezer 
from  seeing  his  new  captor,  who  from  the  helm  of  the  sloop  ordered  one  of 
his  two  lieutenants  to  mind  the  jib  sheet  and  the  other—a  gaunt,  blond- 
bearded  youth  who  looked  more  like  a  rustic  than  a  pirate— to  guard  the 
prisoners.  When  Ebenezer  moved  to  put  his  arm  about  Anna's  shoulders 
she  recoiled  as  if  he  were  a  pirate  himself. 

"Stand  off,  there,  matey/'  the  guard  threatened.  "Leave  that  little  chore 
to  us/' 

The  women  huddled  together  in  the  lee  of  the  mast;  the  two  younger 
ones  still  sniffed  and  whimpered,  but  Mrs.  Russecks,  seeing  that  their  ordeal 
was  not  yet  upon  them,  regained  composure  enough  to  embrace  and  comfort 
them  both.  Whatever  the  pirate  captain  had  on  his  mind,  it  was  clearly  not 
so  pressing  as  Captain  Scurry  (who  had  summoned  the  prisoners  from  the 
hold)  had  led  them  to  believe;  for  more  than  an  hour  the  three  men  stood 
mute  and  shivering  before  their  guard's  pistols  while  the  sloop  bowled  north- 
wards on  a  broad  reach  up  the  Chesapeake.  The  wind  was  fresh,  the  Bay 
quite  rough;  the  moonlight  was  occulted  by  an  easting  scud.  At  last  a  voice 
from  the  helm  said,  "Very  well,  Mr.  Shannon,  fetch  the  gentlemen  aft." 

Fearful  of  what  lay  ahead,  Ebenezer  yearned  to  kiss  Anna  one  last  time; 
he  hesitated,  and  in  the  end  decided  not  to  risk  the  guard's  displeasure,  but 
all  the  way  aft  he  railed  inwardly  against  his  own  general  timidity.  The 
small  light  of  the  binnacle  showed  Captain  Cairn  standing  tensely  at  the 
helm  and  revealed  the  countenance  of  the  notorious  Long  Ben  Avery:  a 
sad-eyed,  beagle-faced  fellow,  not  at  all  fearsome  to  behold,  who  wore  a 
modest  brown  beard  and  curled  mustachios. 

"Good  evening,  gentlemen/'  he  said,  scarcely  raising  his  eyes  from  the 
compass.  "I  shan't  detain  ye  long.  Would  ye  say  she  lies  abeam,  Captain 
Cairn?" 

"Off  the  starboard  bow,"  the  Captain  grumbled.  "If  we  don't  run  aground 
ye'll  soon  hear  the  surf  to  leeward." 

"Excellent."  The  pirate  captain  frowned  and  sucked  at  his  pipe.  "Aye, 
there's  the  surf;  thou'rt  a  rare  good  pilot,  Captain  Cairn!  Now,  gentlemen, 

I've  but  one  question  to  put Ah,  damn  this  tobacco!"  He  drew  at  the 

pipestem  until  the  coals  glowed  yellow.  "There  we  are.  Tis  a  simple  ques- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  73$  ] 

tion,  sirs,  that  ye  may  answer  one  at  a  time,  commencing  with  the  tall 
fellow:  are  ye,  or  have  ye  ever  been,  an  able  seaman?" 

The  pirate  called  Mr.  Shannon  prodded  Ebenezer  with  his  pistol,  but  the 
poet  wanted  no  urging  to  reply;  his  heart  glowed  like  the  pipe  coals  with 
hope  at  their  captor's  gentlemanly  air.  "Nay,  sir,  I'm  but  a  poor  poet,  with 
no  craft  save  that  of  rhyming  and  no  treasure  save  my  dear  sister  yonder, 
for  whose  honor  I'd  trade  my  life!  Dare  I  ask  your  pledge  as  one  gentleman 
to  another,  sir,  that  no  harm  will  be  offered  those  ladies?" 

"Ask  the  second  gentleman,  Mr.  Shannon/' 

The  guard  poked  Bertrand. 

"Nay,  master,  rfore  God  I  am  no  seaman,  nor  aught  else  in  the  world 
but  a  simple  servingman  that  curses  the  hour  of  his  birth!" 

"Very  good."  Captain  Avery  sighed,  still  watching  the  binnacle.  "And 
you,  sir?" 

"This  is  but  the  third  time  I've  been  on  shipboard,  sir,"  McEvoy  declared 
at  once.  "The  first  was  as  a  redemptioner,  kidnaped  out  o'  London  by  Slye 
and  Scurry;  the  second  was  as  a  passenger  on  this  very  ship  this  morning.  I 
swear  to  ye,  I  know  not  my  forepeak  from  my  aft!" 

"Cleverly  put,"  Captain  Avery  approved.  "Then  it  seems  I  cannot  enlist 
ye  for  my  crew.  Mr.  Shannon,  will  ye  escort  these  pleasant  gentlemen  o'er 
the  taffrail?" 

Ebenezer  stiffened  as  if  struck,  and  Bertrand  fell  to  his  knees;  even  Cap- 
tain Cairn  seemed  not  to  realize  for  a  second  what  had  been  said.  The 
guard  gestured  towards  the  taffrail  with  one  of  his  pistols  and  nudged  the 
trembling  valet  with  his  boot 

"There's  a  little  island  to  leeward/'  observed  Captain  Avery. f With  some 
luck  and  the  sea  behind  ye,  ye  might  manage  it.  Count  five,  Mr.  Shannon, 
and  shoot  any  gentleman  who  lingers." 

"One,"  said  Mr.  Shannon.  "Two," 

McEvoy  gave  a  great  oath  and  kicked  off  his  boots.  "Farewell,  Eben,"  he 
said.  "Farewell,  Henriettal"  He  sprang  over  the  rail  and  splashed  into  the 
sea  astern. 

"Three  "  Mr.  Shannon  smiled  at  the  remaining  two  as  they  also  removed 
their  boots.  An  inquiring  female  voice  called  back  from  the  mast,  but  the 
question  was  lost  on  the  wind,  Bertrand  gave  a  final  whimper  and  vaulted 
overboard. 

"Four." 

Ebenezer  hastened  to  the  taffrail.  Hoping  against  hope,  he  called  to  the 
pirate  captain's  back,  "Do  I  have  your  .pledge,  sir?  About  the  ladies?" 


[736]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"I  pledge  to  swive  your  pleasant  ladies  from  sprit  to  transom/'  said  Long 
Ben  Avery.  "I  pledge  to  give  every  jack  o7  my  crew  his  slavering  fill  o'  them, 
and  when  they're  done  I  pledge  to  carve  your  little  sister  into  ship's-beef  and 
salt  her  down  for  the  larboard  watch.  Fire  away,  Mr.  Shannon." 

Given  another  ten  seconds  Ebenezer  might  have  run  forward  to  die  at 
Anna's  side,  but  under  the  impulse  of  the  sudden  command  he  sprang 
wildly  over  the  rail  and  smacked  face-first  into  the  icy  water.  The  triple 
shock  of  the  threat,  the  fall,  and  the  cold  came  near  to  robbing  him  of  his 
senses;  he  retched  with  anguish,  coughed  salt  water  from  his  throat,  and 
after  some  moments  of  frantic  indirection,  caught  sight  of  the  sloop's  light 
receding  into  the  darkness.  The  waves  slapped  and  tossed  him;  merely  to 
float,  as  he  had  done  once  before  in  similar  straits,  would  be  to  perish  of 
the  cold  in  short  order.  Taking  his  bearings  from  the  sloop  and  the  direction 
of  the  seas,  he  thrashed  out  for  the  island  allegedly  to  the  east,  though  his 
very  heart  recoiled  from  the  freezing  water. 

"Halloo!"  he  called,  and  imagined  that  he  heard  an  answer  up  the  wind, 
A  thought  as  chilling  as  the  Bay  occurred  to  him:  what  if  there  was  no 
island  after  all?  What  if  Long  Ben  Avery  had  fired  their  hopes  as  a  cruel 
jest?  In  any  case,  if  there  was  an  island,  it  would  have  to  be  close,  or  he  was 
a  dead  man;  the  following  seas  pushed  him  in  the  right  direction  but 
diminished  by  half  the  effectiveness  of  his  stroke,  and  the  low  temperature 
robbed  him  of  breath. 

He  was  encouraged,  a  minute  or  two  later,  by  a  positive  cry  ahead:  ''This 
way!  I'm  standing  on  bottom!" 

"McEvoy?"  he  called  joyfully. 

"Aye!  Keep  swimming!  Don't  give  up!  Where's  Bertrand?  BertrandF 

From  ahead  and  somewhat  to  the  right  of  the  poet  came  another  re- 
sponse; not  long  afterwards  the  three  men  were  panting  and  shivering  to- 
gether on  a  dark  pebbled  beach. 

"Praise  God,  'tis  a  miracle!"  Bertrand  cried.  "Twice  drowned  by  pirates 
and  twice  washed  safe  on  an  ocean  isle!  Methinks  we  could  walk  down  the 
strand  a  bit  and  find  Drakepecker  once  again!" 

But  McEvoy  and  Ebenezer  were  too  sickened  by  the  plight  of  the  women 
to  rejoice  at  their  own  good  fortune.  The  poet  deemed  it  best  to  say  nothing 
of  Captain  Avery's  parting  threat,  since  they  were  unable  to  prevent  his 
carrying  it  out;  even  so,  McEvoy  vowed  to  devote  the  rest  of  his  life  to 
pursuing  and  assassinating  the  pirate. 

By  comparison  with  the  air  on  their  wet  clothes,  the  Bay  seemed  tepid. 
<nWe  must  get  out  of  the  wind  and  make  a  fire,"  McEvoy  said* 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"We've  no  way  to  light  one,"  Ebenezer  pointed  out  listlessly.  Now  that 
he  was  safe,  his  mind  was  full  of  Anna's  fate  and  their  last  interview;  he 
began  to  wish  that  he  had  drowned. 

"Then  let's  build  a  shelter,  ere  we  freeze/'  McEvoy  said. 

They  hurried  up  onto  the  island  proper,  which  appeared  to  be  only  a  few 
hundred  feet  across;  there  they  found  loblolly  pines,  a  few  scrubby  myrtles, 
and  much  underbrush,  but  not  much  likely-looking  material  for  a  shelter; 
nor  was  the  growth  an  adequate  windbreak.  The  leeward  slope  of  the  island 
was  somewhat  more  comfortable,  though  even  there  it  was  unthinkable 
that  they  could  long  survive  soaking  wet  in  a  forty-mile  winter  wind. 

"M-many,  sirs,  Hook  yonder!"  Bertrand  cried,  shaking  with  cold.  "  Tis 
a  light!" 

Indeed,  out  over  the  water  to  the  east  of  them  shone  what  appeared  to  be 
the  lighted  windows  of  a  house.  The  distance  was  hard  to  estimate,  but 
unless  the  structure  was  very  small,  McEvoy  judged,  it  lay  three  6r  four 
miles  away.  In  the  face  of  Ebenezer's  previous  objection  he  declared  that 
they  must  build  a  fire  at  once,  set  fire  to  the  entire  island  if  need  be,  to 
attract  rescuers;  else  they'd  be  dead  before  sunrise. 

"Let's  scour  the  island/'  he  proposed.  "If  we  hit  on  naught  better,  why, 
we'll  claw  out  a  trench  and  bury  ourselves  together  under  evergreen  boughs. 
Methinks  we  must  prance  and  swing  our  arms  about." 

They  decided  to  search  together,  in  order  to  utilize  the  sooner  anything 
they  might  come  across.  One  man  on  the  beach,  one  on  the  brush  line, 
and  one  at  the  edge  of  the  heavier  growth,  they  proceeded  northwards  up 
the  lee  shore  of  the  island*  calling  encouragement  to  one  another.  But  their 
search  seemed  vain:  every  stick  of  wood  was  wet,  much  even  waterlogged, 
and  no  one  yet  had  proposed  any  means  of  ignition  should  it  have  proved 
dry.  Moreover,  the  growth  thinned  out  as  they  approached  the  northern 
end  of  the  island,  which  appeared  to  be  half  a  mile  or  so  in  length. 

Not  far  from  the  point,  Bertrand,  who  had  been  patroling  the  brush  lines, 
called  for  them  to  come  at  once  and  behold  another  miracle,  "  Tis  enough 
to  drive  a  body  to  the  church!"  he  declared  proudly.  "Lookee  here,  what  I 
came  nigh  to  breaking  my  toes  on!" 

At  his  feet  they  saw  a  longish  black  shape,  which  on  closer  approach 
they  recognized  as  a  stranded  dinghy. 

Tfaitht"  cried  McEvoy,  scrabbling  inside  to  examine  it,  "There's  even 
an  oarl  She  must  have  blown  hither  in  a  storm!" 

"I  doubt  she's  seaworthy/'  Ebenezer  warned,  observing  that  several  inches 
of  water  stood  in  the  bilge.  "But  we  might  use  her  for  a  shelter/' 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Nay,"  McEvoy  protested.  "She  must  be  tight,  Eben,  else  the  water  would 
have  leaked  out,  would  it  not?  I  say  let's  make  a  try  at  yonder  light!  But 
stay— we've  only  one  oar." 

"There's  a  trick  called  sculling  .  .  ."  Ebenezer  offered  doubtfully.  "But 
f  Christ,  John,  listen  to  that  chop— 'tis  like  the  ocean!  We'd  drown  in  five 
minutes!" 

"But  if  we  manage  it,  we're  safe,"  McEvoy  reminded  him.  "If  we  stay 
here,  belike  we'll  freeze  to  death  ere  sunrise,  and  e'en  if  we  do  not,  who's 
to  say  we'll  be  rescued  in  the  morning?" 

They  pondered  the  alternatives  briefly,  and  the  third  course  of  sending 
one  of  their  number  to  bring  assistance  to  the  others. 

"  Twill  take  one  man  to  scull  and  another  to  bail,"  Bertrand  ventured. 
"We'd  as  lief  die  together,  as  apart,  hadn't  we,  sirs?" 

"Then  I  say  let's  drown  together  instead  o'  freezing,"  said  McEvoy. 
<(What  say  ye,  Eben?" 

The  poet  started,  and  saw  by  his  companion's  grim  smile  that  McEvoy 
had  formed  the  question  deliberately.  For  an  instant  he  forgot  the  frightful 
cold:  he  was  at  table  in  Locket's,  where  the  eyes  of  Ben  Oliver,  Dick  Mem- 
weather,  Tom  Trent,  and  Joan  Toast  had  joined  McEvoy's  to  render  him 
immobile;  again,  as  then,  he  felt  the  weight  of  choice  devolve  upon  him, 
peg  him  out  like  a  tan  yard  hide  in  all  directions.  It  was  queer  moment:  he 
felt  as  must  a  seasoned  Alpinist  brought  back  to  a  crag  whence  he  fell  of 
old  and  barely  survived;  many  another  and  more  formidable  he  has  scaled 
since  without  a  tremor,  but  this  one  turns  his  blood  to  water  .  *  . 

With  some  effort,  Ebenezer  threw  off  the  memory.  "I  say  we  try  for  the 
house,  The  wind  and  waves  are  behind  us,  and  for  better  or  worse  we'll 
have  done  with't  in  an  hour." 

However  chilling  this  final  observation,  it  spurred  them  to  action.  They 
overturned  the  dinghy  to  empty  the  bilge,  dragged  it  down  to  the  water, 
and  launched  it.  McEvoy's  reasoning  proved  correct:  the  water  standing  in 
the  bilge  had  kept  the  chine-  and  keelson-seams  tight.  At  Ebenezer's  sug- 
gestion, who  had  learned  something  of  rowing  from  Burlingame,  Bertrand 
and  McEvoy  each  equipped  himself  with  half  of  a  shingle  discovered  on 
the  beach,  both  to  assist  in  freeing  out  the  water  they  were  certain  to  ship 
and  to  help  prevent  the  little  boat  from  broaching  to  in  the  following  seas. 

Though  he  truly  cared  little  now  for  his  own  safety,  the  burden  of 
responsibility  weighed  heavy  on  the  poet's  heart.  He  knew  so  little  about 
what  he  was  doing,  and  they  carried  out  his  suggestions,  on  which  their 
lives  depended,  as  if  he  were  Captain  Cairnl  But  however  meager  his  sea- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  739  ] 

manship,  it  was  apparently  superior  to  Bertrand's  and  McEvoy's,  who  had 
never  rowed  a  boat  in  their  lives.  And  however  great  the  burden,  it  was  no 
longer  an  unfamiliar  one:  he  grappled  with  it  calmly,  as  with  an  old,  well- 
known  opponent,  and  wondered  whether  his  sensibility  had  perhaps  of  late 
been  toughened  like  the  hands  of  an  apprentice  mason,  by  frequent 
laceration. 

"Methinks  'twere  best  the  twain  of  you  sit  forward,  to  keep  the  stern 
high*  If  sculling  fails  us,  we'll  paddle  like  salvages." 

They  clambered  aboard,  shivering  violently  from  their  new  wetting; 
Ebenezer  was  able  to  pole  out  a  hundred  yards  or  so  through  shoal  water 
before  it  became  necessary  to  fit  his  oar  between  the  transom  tholes  and 
commence  sculling.  Fortunately,  the  first  mile  or  so  was  in  the  lee  of  the 
island;  the  relative  stillness  of  the  water  gave  him  opportunity  to  get  the 
knack  of  pitching  the  blade  properly  for  thrust  without  losing  his  oar.  But 
soon  the  island  was  too  far  behind  to  shelter  them:  the  hissing  seas  rolled 
in  astern— three,  four,  and  five  feet  from  trough  to  crest;  as  each  overtook 
them  the  dinghy  seemed  to  falter,  intimidated,  and  then  actually  to  be 
drawn  backwards  as  if  by  undertow,  Ebenezer  would  hold  his  breath— 
surely  they  would  be  pooped!  But  at  the  last  instant  the  stern  would  be 
flung  high  and  the  dinghy  thrust  forward  on  the  crest;  the  scanty  freeboard 
disappeared;  water  sluiced  over  both  gunwales;  Bertrand  and  McEvoy 
bailed  madly  to  keep  afloat,  Then  the  sea  rushed  on,  and  the  dinghy  would 
seem  to  slide  backwards  into  the  maw  of  the  one  behind,  Each  wave  was  a 
fresh  tenror;  it  seemed  unthinkable  that  they  should  survive  it,  and  even 
more  that  managing  by  some  miracle  to  do  so  earned  them  not  a  second's 
respite.  The  helmsman's  job  was  especially  arduous  and  tricky:  though  the 
net  motion  of  the  dinghy  was  actually  always  forward,  the  approach  of  each 
new  sea  had  the  effect  of  stemway;  instead  of  sculling,  Ebenezer  would  be 
obliged  to  use  the  oar  for  a  rudder  to  keep  the  boat  from  broaching  to,  and 
moreover  would  have  to  steer  backwards,  since  the  water  was  moving  faster 
than  the  boat.  Only  at  the  crest  could  he  scull  for  a  stroke  or  two— but  not 
a  moment  too  long,  or  the  dinghy  would  yaw  sickeningly  in  the  next  trough. 
The  men  were  rapidly  demoralized  past  speech;  they  toiled  as  if  possessed, 
and  when  the  moon  broke  the  scud  it  lit  three  shocked  faces  staring  wide- 
eyed  at  the  monster  overtaking  them* 

To  turn  back,  of  course,  was  out  of  the  question,  since  even  if  some  god 
should  turn  thetn  around,  they  could  make  no  windward  headway.  Yet 
after  what  seemed  like  an  hour  of  frantic  labor  and  hairsbreadth  escapes— 
perhaps  actually  no  more  than  twenty  minutes— the  light  ahead  appeared 


[740]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

no  closer  than  before.  What  was  worse,  it  seemed  to  have  moved  distinctly 
northward:  in  the  beginning  it  had  lain  dead  ahead,  and  now,  though  they 
still  moved  entirely  leewards,  it  stood  well  off  their  larboard  bow.  It  was 
Bertrand  who  first  observed  this  distressing  fact,  and  it  moved  him  to  speak 
for  the  first  time  in  many  minutes. 

"Dear  Father!  What  if  it's  a  ship,  and  there's  no  land  for  miles?" 

McEvoy  offered  an  alternative  hypothesis.  "Belike  the  wind  hath  swung 
round  a  bit  to,  the  northwest  We  may  have  to  hike  a  few  miles  up  the 
shore." 

"There's  e'en  a  happier  possibility,"  Ebenezer  said.  "I  scarce  dare 
hope But  stay!  Do  you  hear  a  sound?" 

They  paused  in  their  work  to  listen  and  were  nearly  taken  under  by  the 
next  wave. 

"Aye,  'tis  a  surf!"  Ebenezer  cried  joyously,  "Neither  we  nor  the  light  have 
changed  course;  'tis  that  we're  almost  upon  it!"  What  he  wanted  to  explain 
was  that  though  from  the  island  they  had  steered  as  directly  for  the  light 
as  they  were  able,  their  actual  course  was  somewhat  to  the  south  of  it;  from 
four  or  five  miles  distance  the  error  (perhaps  a  few  hundred  feet)  had  been 
too  small  to  notice,  but  as  they  drew  very  near,  the  angle  between  their 
course  and  the  light  tended  to  increase  towards  ninety  degre&.  Before  he 
could  elaborate,  however,  a  wave  greater  than  usual  tossed  the  stern  high 
and  to  larboard  and  lifted  the  oar  from  its  tholes. 

"She's  broaching  to!"  he  warned. 

The  others  paddled  to  no  purpose  with  their  shingles.  Ebenezer  slammed 
the  oar  back  between  the  pins  and  attempted  to  bring  the  stern  into  the 
seas  by  putting  the  "tiller"  end  hard  over  to  larboard,  as  he  had  grown 
used  to  doing  under  sternway.  But  his  action  was  out  of  phase,  for  the 
crest  had  passed  and  left  the  dinghy  momentarily  wayless  in  the  trough: 
the  motion  of  the  oar  was  in  fact  a  sculling  stroke,  and  had  the  effect  of 
bringing  the  stern  even  farther  around.  The  next  wave  struck  them  fair  on 
the  starboard  quarter,  broached  them  to,  and  filled  the  boat  ankle  deep  with 
water;  the  one  after  that,  a  white-capped  five-footer,  took  them  square 
abeam,  and  they  were  flailing  once  more  in  the  icy  Chesapeake.  This  time, 
however,  their  ordeal  was  brief  (happily,  for  none  had  strength  enough  to 
stay  half  a  minute  afloat) :  their  feet  struck  seaweed  and  mud  at  once,  and 
they  found  themselves  less  than  a  dozen  yards  from  shore.  They  scrambled 
in,  knocked  down  time  and  again  by  the  hip-high  breakers,  and  gained  the 
beach  at  last,  scarcely  able  to  stand. 

"We  must  make  haste!"  McEvoy  gasped,  "We  may  freeze  yetl" 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  741  ] 

As  fast  as  they  could  manage,  stiimbling  and  panting,  they  moved  up  the 
shore  towards  their  beacon,  now  plainly  recognizable  as  the  lighted 
windows  of  a  good-sized  house.  Not  far  from  it,  where  the  beach  met  the 
lawn  of  the  house,  stood  a  tall  loblolly  pine,  at  the  foot  of  which  they  saw 
a  conspicuous  white  object,  like  a  large  vertical  stone.  Ebenezer's  hackles 
suddenly  tingled.  "Ah  God!"  he  cried,  and  summoned  the  last  of  his 
strength  to  sprint  forward  and  embrace  the  grave.  The  feeble  moon  sufficed 
to  show  the  inscription: 

Anne  Bowyer  Cooke 

b.  1645  d.  1666 
Thus  Far  Hath  the  Lord 

Helped  Us. 

The  others  came  up  behind.  "What  is  it?" 

Ebenezer  would  not  turn  his  head.  "My  journey's  done,"  He  wept.  "I 
have  come  full  circle.  Yonder^  Maiden;  go  and  save  yourselves/' 

Astonished,  they  read  the  gravestone,  and  when  entreaty  proved  vain, 
they  lifted  Ebenezer  by  main  strength  from  the  grave,  Once  upon  his  feet, 
he  offered  them  no  resistance,  but  the  last  of  his  spirit  seemed  gone. 

"Had  I  ne'er  been  brought  to  birth/'  he  said,  pointing  to  the  stone, 
"that  woman  were  alive  today,  and  my  sistef  with  her,  and  my  father  a 
gentleman  sot-weed  planter,  and  the  three  of  them  living  happy  in  yonder 
house." 

Bertrand  was  too  near  freezing  to  offer  a  reply,  if  he  had  any,  but  McEvoy 
—who  likewise  shook  from  head  to  foot  with  cold— led  the  poet  off  by  the 
arm  and  said,  "Go  to,  'tis  like  the  sin  o'  Father  Adam,  that  we  all  have  on 
our  heads;  we  ne'er  asked  for't,  but  there  it  is,  and  do  we  choose  to  live, 
why— we  must  needs  live  with't" 

Ebenezer  had  been  used  to  seeing  Maiden  a-bustle  with  deplorable 
activity  after  dark,  but  now  only  the  parlor  appeared  to  be  occupied;  the 
rest  of  the  house,  as  well  as  the  grounds  and  outbuildings— he  peered  with 
awful  shame  in  the  direction  of  the  curing-house—was  dark  and  quiet,  As 
they  went  up  the  empty  lawn  toward  the  front  door,  which  faced  south- 
westwards  to  the  grave  and  the  Bay  beyond,  McEvoy,  as  much  to  warm 
himself,  no  doubt,  as  to  comfort  Ebenezer,  went  on  to  declare  through 
chattering  teeth  that  the  single  light  was  a  good  sign:  without  question  it 
meant  that  Andrew  Cooke  had  put  his  house  in  order,  had  turned  out  the 
whores  and  rascals,  and  was  waiting  with  his  daughter-in-law  for  news  of 
his  prodigal  son.  He  would  be  overjoyed  to  see  them;  they  would  be  clothed 


[  742  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

and  fed,  and  alarms  would  be  dispatched  at  once  to  Anne  Arundel  Town 
to  intercept  Long  Ben  Avery. 

''Stay."  Ebenezer  shook  his  head.  "Such  fables  hurt  too  much  beside  the 
truth/' 

McEvoy  released  his  arm  angrily.  "Still  the  virgin/'  he  cried,  "with  no 
thought  for  any  wight's  loss  save  his  own!  Run  down  and  die  on  yonder 
grave!" 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head:  he  wanted  to  explain  to  his  injured  companion 
that  he  suffered  not  from  his  loss  alone,  as  did  McEvoy,  but  from  McEvoy's 
loss  as  well,  and  Anna's,  and  Andrew's,  and  even  Bertrand's— from  the 
general  condition  of  things,  in  sum,  for  which  he  saw  himself  answerable— 
and  that  the  pain  of  loss,  however  great,  was  as  nothing  beside  the  pain  of 
responsibility  for  loss.  The  fallen  suffer  from  Adam's  fall,  he  wanted  to 
explain;  but  in  that  knowledge— which  the  Fall  itself  vouchsafed  him— how 
more  must  Adam  have  suffered!  But  he  was  too  gripped  by  cold  and  despair 
to  essay  such  philosophy. 

They  reached  the  house. 

"We'd  best  have  a  look  through  the  window  ere  we  knock/'  Bertrand 
said.  "I'd  liefer  take  my  chances  in  the  barn  than  fall  into  some  villain's 
hands."  It  is  possible  that  he  trembled  from  more  than  exposure,  for  he 
added,  "FChrist,  what  will  Master  Andrew  say  to  me,  that  was  sent  to  be 
your  adviser!" 

They  went  to  the  lighted  window  of  the  parlor,  from  which,  on  drawing 
near,  they  heard  the  sounds  of  masculine  laughter  and  conversation. 

McEvoy  got  there  first.  "Some  men  at  cards,"  he  reported,  and  then  a 
look  of  sudden  pain  came  into  his  face.  "Dear  Godl  Can  that  be  poor  Joan?" 

Bertrand  hastened  up  beside  him.  "Aye,  that's  the  swine-maid,  and 

yonder's  Master  Andrew  in  the  periwig,  but "  Now  he  too  showed  great 

distress,  but  more  in  the  nature  of  anxiety  than  anguish.  "God's  blood  and 
body,  Master  Eben!"  he  swore,  "  'Tis  Colonel  Robotham!" 

But  Ebenezer  was  at  the  window  sill  by  this  time,  and  beheld  for  himself 
these  wonders  and  others  by  far  more  marvelous.  Joan  Toast,  so  beridden 
and  devoured  by  her  afflictions  that  she  looked  a  leprous  Bedlamite,  was 
hobbling  with  a  pitcher  of  ale  towards  a  green  baize  table  in  the  center  of 
the  parlor,  about  whose  circumference  five  gentlemen  sat  at  cards:  the 
lawyer,  physician,  and  minister  of  the  gospel  Richard  Sowter,  who  sucked 
on  his  pipe  and  called  upon  various  saints  to  witness  the  wretched  hand 
he  was  being  dealt;  the  cooper  (and  dealer)  William  Smith,  who  smiled 
grandly  at  the  table  and  with  his  pipestem  directed  Joan  to  fill  An- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  743  ] 

drew  Cooke's  glass;  Bertrand' s  portly,  sanguine  father-in-law  from  Talbot 
County,  Colonel  George  Robotham,  who  seemed  preoccupied  with  some- 
thing quite  other  than  lanterloo;  Andrew  Cooke  himself,  grown  thinner 
and  older-looking  since  Ebenezer  had  seen  him  last,  but  more  sharp-eyed 
than  ever,  grasping  his  cards  in  his  good  left  hand  and  glancing  like  an  old 
eagle  at  the  others,  as  if  they  were  not  his  adversaries  but  his  prey;  and 
finally,  most  appalling  of  all,  at  Andrew's  withered  right  arm,  joking  as 
merrily  over  his  cards  as  if  he  were  back  in  Locket's— Henry  Burlingame, 
still  in  the  character  he  called  "Nicholas  Lowe  of  Talbot"! 

"Very  well,  gentlemen/'  the  cooper  declared,  having  dealt  four  hands. 
"I  share  the  fortunes  of  Mr.  Sowter,  I  believe/' 

"Put  it  the  other  way  about,"  Burlingame  remarked,  "and  there'll  be  more 
truth  than  poetry  in't  when  we  get  to  court." 

Sowter  shook  his  head  in  mock  despair.  "St.  Dominic's  sparrow,  neigh- 
bors! If  our  case  were  half  as  feeble  as  this  miscarriage,  we'd  get  no  farther 
than  the  courthouse  jakes  with't,  I  swear!" 

"As  we  all  know  ye  shan't  in  any  case,"  Burlingame  taunted  amiably, 
"inasmuch  as  the  only  real  case  to  argue  is  the  size  of  your  bribe." 

"Ah,  lads,  go  to,"  said  Andrew  Cooke.  "This  talk  of  bribes  and  mis- 
carriages alarms  the  Colonel!"  He  smiled  sardonically  at  Colonel  Robotham. 
"Do  forgive  my  son  his  over-earnestness,  George:  'tis  a  famous  failing  of  the 
lad's,  as  I  daresay  your  daughter  hath  remarked." 

Outside  the  window,  Bertrand  gasped.  "D'ye  hear  that,  Master  Eben? 
He  called  that  wight  his  son!  An  entire  stranger!" 

"There's  something  amiss/'  McEvoy  agreed,  "but  they  all  seem  peaceable 
enough."  Without  more  ado  he  began  to  rap  on  the  windowpanes.  "Hdlol 
Hdlo!  Let  us  in  or  we're  dead  men!" 

"Nay,  i'Christ!"  cried  Bertrand,  but  he  was  too  late;  the  startled  players 
turned  towards  the  window. 

"Januarius's  bubbling  blood!" 

"Look  to't,  Susan,"  the  cooper  ordered  calmly,  and  Joan  Toast  set  her 
pitcher  on  the  sideboard, 

"Ebenezer,  my  boy,"  said  Andrew  Cooke,  "fetch  thy  pistol."  Burlingame 
laid  his  cards  face  down  on  the  baize  and  went  to  do  as  he  was  bid. 

Joan  Toast  opened  the  door  and  thrust  out  a  lantern.  "Who  is't?"  she 
called  listlessly. 

"Runt"  muttered  Bertrand,  and  lit  out  across  the  lawn. 

McEvoy  drew  back  from  the  window  and  bit  his  underlip  nervously. 
"What  say  ye,  Eben?"  he  whispered,  "Hadn't  we  best  run  for't?" 


[  744  I  T?ra  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

But  the  poet  neither  moved  nor  made  reply,  for  the  reason  that  at  first 
sight  of  the  strange  assemblage  in  the  parlor  he  had  been  dumfounded, 
brought  back  (or  around,  as  the  case  may  be)  to  that  vulnerable  condition 
of  his  youth  which  the  cuisses  of  virginity,  the  cuirass  of  his  laureateship, 
were  donned  to  shield;  and  when  in  addition  he  had  witnessed  his  father 
addressing  Burlingame— incredibly!— as  "my  son"  and  "Ebenezer,"  he  had 
been  frozen  on  the  instant  where  he  stood,  not  by  the  Bay  wind  but  by 
the  same  black  breeze  that  thrice  before— in  Magdalene  College,  in  Locket's, 
and  in  his  room  in  Pudding  Lane— had  sighed  from  the  Pit  to  ice  his  bones. 

"Who  is't?"  Joan  repeated. 

McEvoy  stepped  from  behind  Ebenezer  so  that  the  light  from  the  parlor 
window  illumined  his  face. 

"Tis  I,  Joan  Toast,"  he  said  uncertainly.  "Tis  Eben  Coolce  and  John 
McEvoy.  .  .  ." 

Joan  made  a  sound  and  clutched  at  the  doorjamb;  the  lantern  slipped 
to  the  ground  and  was  extinguished.  A  man's  voice  came  from  the  vestibule 
behind  her.  "What  the  Devil!" 

"Haply  we'd  better  flee,  after  all,"  McEvoy  suggested.  But  Ebenezer,  no 
longer  even  shivering,  stood  transfixed  in  his  original  position. 


19:    THE  POET  AWAKENS  FROM  HIS  DREAM  OF  HELL  TO 
BE  JUDGED  IN  LIFE  BY  RHADAMANTHUS 


FOR  CENTURIES  UPON  CENTURIES,  SO  IT  SEEMED  TO  EBENEZER,  HE  HAI> 

sojourned  in  the  realm  of  Lucifer,  where  in  penance  for  Lust  and  Pride  he 
underwent  a  double  torture:  the  first  was  to  be  transferred  at  short  intervals 
from  everlasting  flames  to  the  ice  of  Cocytus,  frozen  by  the  wings  of  the 
King  of  Hell  himself;  the  second,  less  frequent  but  much  more  painful,  was 
to  see  commingled  and  transfused  before  his  eyes  the  faces  of  Joan  Toast 
and  his  sister  Anna.  Joan  would  bend  near  him,  her  face  unmarred  and 
spirited  as  it  had  been  in  London:  her  dress  was  fresh,  her  pox  vanished; 
her  eyes  were  bright  and  tender—indeed,  her  face  was  not  hers  at  all,  but 
Anna  Cooke's!  Then  even  as  he  watched  his  sister's  face  he  saw  her  eyes 
go  red  and  dull,  her  teeth  rot  in  the  gums,  her  flesh  go  raw  with  suppurating 
lesions— until  at  last,  with  Joan  Toast's  face,  she  became  Joan  Toast,  where- 
upon the  cycle  would  sometimes  recommence.  The  metamorphosis  invari- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  745  ] 

ably  stole  his  breath;  he  would  choke  and  cry  out,  thrash  his  arms  and  legs 
about  in  the  fire  or  the  ice,  whichever  he  chanced  to  be  immersed  in  at  the 
time,  and  gibber  blasphemies  as  obscure  as  Pluto's  "Papb  Satan  aleppe  .  .  " 
It  is  not  difficult  to  imagine,  therefore,  with  what  joy  he  found  Anna  quite 
unaltered  when  at  length  he  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  her  sitting  near  his 
bed,  reading  a  book.  The  very  magnitude  of  his  relief  thwarted  its  expres- 
sion, for  he  fell  almost  at  once  into  profoundest  dreamless  sleep. 

Upon  his  second  awakening  he  was  more  rational;  he  realized  that  he  had 
been  ill  and  delirious  for  some  time— whether  a  day  or  a  month  he  could 
not  guess— and  that  now  his  fever  was  gone.  It  pleased  him  no  end  to  see 
that  his  sister  was  still  in  attendance  at  his  bedside,  since  now  he  was  quite 
able  to  address  hen 

"Dearest  Anna!  How  very  kind  of  you  to  nurse  me  .  ,  ." 

He  spoke  no  further,  both  because  his  sister,  weeping  joyfully,  rushed 
from  her  chair  to  embrace  him,  and  because  he  suddenly  understood  how 
incredible  it  was  that  she  should  be  there,  apparently  safe  and  sound! 

"Ffaith,  where  am  I?"  he  whispered.  "How  is't  thou'rt  here?" 

"Too  great  a  story!"  Anna  sobbed.  "Thou'rt  home  in  Maiden,  Eben, 
and  God  be  praised  thou'rt  back  among  the  living!"  Without  releasing  him 
she  called  through  the  open  doorway,  "Roxannel  Come  quick!  Eben's 
awake!" 

"Roxanne  as  well?"  Ebenezer  closed  his  eyes  to  gather  strength. 

"Thou'rt  weak,  poor  thing!  Marry,  if  you  but  knew  how  I  wept  when  I 
learned  what  Captain  Avery  had  done,  and  how  I  yearned  to  die  with  you, 
and  how  I  feared  you'd  perish  here  at  Maiden  and  spoil  the  miracle-i'God, 
'tis  too  much  to  tell!  Four  days  you've  hung  'twixt  life  and  death " 

Mrs.  Russecks  and  Henrietta  came  in  from  the  hall,  neither  evidently 
the  worse  for  their  ordeal,  and  when  their  initial  rejoicing  subsided,  the 
poet  learned  the  circumstances  of  their  escape. 

"  Twas  an  act  of  God,  nor  more  nor  less,"  Mrs,  Russecks  declared  simply. 
"How  else  account  for't?  Long  Ben  Aveiy  is  Benjamin  Long  of  Church 
Creek,  my  first  and  long-lost  lover!"  Immediately  after  dispatching  the 
three  male  prisoners,  she  said,  the  privateer  had  summoned  the  women  aft 
for  the  avowed  purpose  of  taking  his  pleasure,  but  as  it  turned  out,  they 
suffered  no  more  than  a  few  prurient  remarks,  for  upon  learning  first  her 
Christian  name  and  then,  in  response  to  closer  inquiry,  her  maiden  sur- 
name, his  attitude  had  changed  altogether:  he  had  apologized  for  having 
thrown  the  men  overboard,  expressed  his  hope  that  they  would  reach 
Sharp's  Island  safely,  and  at  the  risk  of  his  own  life  changed  course  for  the 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

mouth  of  the  Severn  River,  where  he  had  bid  them  adieu  and  returned  to 
his  own  ship,  leaving  Captain  Cairn  to  ferry  them  singlehanded  to  Anne 
Arundel  Town! 

"We  don't  know  'twas  Benjamin  Long/'  Henrietta  admitted.  "He'd  not 
answer  Mother's  questions.  But  I  can't  account  for  his  behavior  other- 
wise  " 

"Of  course  it  was  my  Benjy,"  Mrs.  Russecks  said.  "The  dear  boy  ran  off 
to  sea  thirty  years  ago  and  turned  pirate.  Twas  purely  out  o'  shame  he'd  not 
own  up  to't."  On  this  point  she  was  as  calmly  impervious  to  argument  as  a 
Christian  on  the  question  of  God's  benevolence,  and  despite  the  staggering 
unlikelihood  of  the  coincidence,  Ebenezer  had  to  admit  that  he  could  think 
of  no  hypothesis  to  account  more  reasonably  for  Long  Ben  Avery's  sudden 
charity.  He  sat  up  to  embrace  them  all  by  turns,  and  his  sister  again  and 
again,  whom  he  had  given  up  for  lost,  and  then  lay  back  exhausted.  His 
"sojourn  in  Hell,"  he  now  learned,  had  actually  lasted  four  days,  during 
which  he  had  hung  in  the  balance  between  life  and  death;  McEvoy  and 
Bertrand  had  also  been  bedridden  from  the  effects  of  exposure,  though  not 
comatose.  The  former  was  now  quite  recovered,  but  Bertrand,  whom  they 
had  not  located  in  the  barn  until  the  morning  after,  was  still  in  grave 
condition. 

"Thank  Heav'n  they're  alive!"  Ebenezer  exclaimed.  "What  of  Father, 
and  Henry  Burlingame,  and  the  cooper?  Do  I  hear  them  belowstairs?" 
Indeed,  from  the  rooms  below  came  the  sound  of  several  men's  voices, 
apparently  in  argument. 

"Aye,"  Anna  said.  "The  fact  is,  they're  all  under  house  arrest  till  the 
matter  of  our  estate  is  settled!  Governor  Nicholson  is  much  alarmed  about 
the  rebellion  and  the  opium  traffic,  and  hath  put  Cooke's  Point  under  a 
sort  of  martial  law  till  your  recovery.  In  the  meantime,  everyone  accuses 
everyone  else,  and  no  man  knows  whose  title  is  valid."  Directly  upon  their 
arrival  in  Anne  Arundel  Town,  she  explained,  Captain  Caim  and  they  had 
gone  to  the  Governor's  house,  roused  him  from  bed  despite  the  hour,  and 
reported  as  much  as  they  could  piece  together  of  their  kidnaping,  the 
activity  on  Bloodsworth  Island,  and  the  vicious  enterprise  of  which  Maiden 
had  apparently  become  a  regional  headquarters.  Thanks  to  the  mention  of 
the  John  Smith  papers  and  Captain  Cairn's  reputation  as  a  sober  citizen 
of  St.  Mary's,  Governor  Nicholson  had  accepted  their  report  at  face  value: 
two  armed  pinnaces  had  been  dispatched  in  pursuit  of  Captain  Avery's 
Phansie,  and  the  President  of  the  Council  himself,  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence, 
had  set  out  with  the  ladies  for  Cooke's  Point  before  dawn,  empowered  by 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

the  Governor  to  act  as  his  proxy  in  any  matters  involving  the  welfare  of  the 
Province. 

"And  marry"— -Henrietta  laughed— "what  a  jolly  time  we've  had  since!" 
Andrew  Cooke,  she  declared,  had  suffered  a  series  of  such  great  and  am- 
bivalent surprises  that  for  a  time  they  had  feared  for  his  sanity:  to  begin 
with,  his  joy  at  finding  Ebenezer  alive  had  given  way  at  once  to  wrath  and 
no  small  embarrassment— the  latter  occasioned  by  his  having  sworn  to  all 
and  sundry  that  "Nicholas  Lowe,"  who  in  truth  had  befriended  him  a  fort- 
night previously  and  told  him  that  Ebenezer  was  dead,  was  the  red 
Ebenezer  Cooke,  and  that  the  so-called  Laureate  of  Maryland  who  had 
given  Cooke's  Point  away  was  a  gross  impostor.  How  had  his  dismay  been 
compounded,  then,  when  in  the  space  of  twenty-four  hours  he  had  learned 
that  his  "son"  was  apparently  a  highly  placed  agent  of  the  Governor's;  that 
Anna  had  been  captured  and  freed  by  the  notorious  Long  Ben  Avery;  and 
—perhaps  most  disconcerting  of  all—that  she  had  brought  with  her  his  old 
mistress  Roxanne  Edouard  and  a  young  lady  alleged  to  be  his  natural 
daughter! 

"Beside  these  wonders,"  Henrietta  said,  "such  trifles  as  the  Bloodsworth 
insurrection  are  beneath  his  attention!  Really,  Brother  Eben,  'tis  a  droll 
fellow  we  have  for  a  father!" 

"Henrietta!"  Mrs.  Russecks  scolded.  "Let  us  hasten  to  tell  Sir  Thomas 
that  Mister  Cooke  is  himself  again,  and  will  soon  be  strong  enough  to  speak 
with  him."  She  kissed  the  poet  quite  maternally.  "Thank  God  for  that!" 

Anna  was  greatly  amused.  "Henrietta  is  a  marvelous  tease,"  she  said  to 
Ebenezer  when  they  were  alone  again.  "Roxanne  hath  warned  her  not  to 
call  us  brother  and  sister  or  speak  of  Father  as  her  father,  but  she  doth  it 
nonetheless  to  provoke  him,"  By  Roxanne's  own  admission,  she  said, 
Andrew  had  not  known  when  he  left  her  in  1670  that  she  was  carrying  his 
child;  she  had  refrained  from  telling  him  lest  he  marry  her  under  coercion, 
and  so  had  been  doubly  embittered  when  he  returned  her  to  her  "uncle" 
in  Church  Creek,  "But  ah,  he  loved  her,"  Anna  declared.  "You  should  have 
seen  him  when  we  came  in!  So  overjoyed  to  see  her,  he  scarce  had  eyes  for 
me,  yet  so  ashamed  of  having  left  her-— i'faith,  he  was  crucified  by  shame! 
He  ne'er  once  questioned  that  Henrietta  was  his  daughter,  but  for  days 
now  hath  gone  from  begging  the  whole  world's  pardon  to  raging  at  the  lot 
of  us  as  vultures  and  thieves,  come  to  do  him  out  of  Maiden!  Tis  a  pitiful 
sight,  Eben:  we  must  forgive  him." 

Anna  seemed  to  have  been  altered  by  her  late  experience:  her  face  was 
drawn  and  weary  as  before,  but  her  voice  and  manner  reflected  a  new  se- 


[  748  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

renity,  an  acceptance  of  things  difficult  to  accept— in  short,  a  beatitude,  for 
like  Mrs.  Russecks  she  reminded  Ebenezer  of  one  to  whom  a  miracle,  a 
vision  or  mystic  grace,  has  lately  been  vouchsafed.  The  memory  of  their 
last  exchange  in  the  hold  of  Captain  Cairn's  sloop  brought  the  blood  to 
his  face;  he  closed  his  eyes  for  shame  and  gripped  her  hand.  Anna  returned 
the  pressure  as  if  she  read  his  thoughts  clearly,  and  went  on  in  her  quiet 
voice  to  declare  that  despite  Roxanne's  coolness  to  Andrew's  contrition, 
and  her  assertion  that  Benjamin  Long,  or  Long  Ben  Avery,  was  the  only 
man  who  ever  truly  won  her  heart,  Henrietta  and  Anna  agreed  that  she  had 
by  no  means  lost  her  affection  for  their  father;  had  indeed  quite  forgiven 
him  for  deserting  her,  but  was  too  wise  to  grant  her  pardon  overhastily. 

Ebenezer  smiled  and  shook  his  head.  He  was  frightfully  weak,  but  he 
could  feel  the  balm  of  his  good  fortune  working  magically  to  restore  his 
strength. 

"What  of  you  and  Henry,  Anna?"  he  inquired. 

Anna  lowered  her  eyes.  "We  have  talked/'  she  said,  "—like  this,  with  eyes 
averted.  He  was  as  confounded  as  Father  when  I  walked  in  with  Roxanne 
and  Henrietta!  He  rejoiced  at  our  safety  and  yearns  to  see  you.  I  told  him 
privily  what  I  could  of  his  father  and  brothers,  and  your  fears  for  the  safety 
of  the  Province;  naturally  he  is  ablaze  with  curiosity  and  cannot  wait  to  set 
out  for  Bloodsworth  Island—you  know  how  Henry  is— but  he  won't  go  till 
he  talks  to  you.  We've  promised  not  to  reveal  his  disguise,  you  know;  even 
Sir  Thomas  calls  him  'Mr.  Lowe/  and  Father  thinks  he's  the  finest  fellow  in 
the  Province— he's  supposed  to  be  a  friend  of  yours,  that  bemoans  your 
loss  and  agreed  to  help  Father  get  Maiden  back.  The  three  of  us,  I  suspect, 
will  be  much  embarrassed  by  one  another  for  some  time  ,  .  .  our  situation 
is  so  hopeless  .  .  ."  She  sniffed  back  a  tear  and  made  her  voice  more  cheer- 
ful. "The  others  are  quite  delighted  with  each  other,  or  at  least  resigned: 
Henrietta  and  John,  Roxanne  and  Father;  even  Bertrand  and  the  Robot- 
hams  have  a  sort  of  truce:  the  Colonel  still  vows  that  Bertiand  is  you  and 
presses  his  claim  to  Maiden  for  fear  of  scandal,  and  Lucy,  poor  thing,  hath 
not  got  long  to  her  term  and  trembles  at  the  thought  of  bearing  a  bastard. 
They  know  very  well  their  claim's  a  fraud  and  they're  as  much  to  blame 
for't  as  Bertrand,  but  they're  desperate,  and  Bertrand  won't  confess  for  fear 
the  Colonel  will  murther  him  where  he  lies.  Tis  a  splendid  comedy." 

Ebenezer  heard  the  sounds  of  new  excitement  downstairs:  his  recovery 
had  been  announced. 

"Tell  me  about  my  wife,"  he  begged,  and  saw  Anna  try  in  vain  to  dis- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  749  ] 

semble  her  shock  at  the  deliberately  chosen  term.  Tears  started  in  her  eyes, 
and  she  shook  her  head  shortly,  almost  as  if  shuddering. 

"She  hath  not  long  to  live  .  .  ." 

"Nay!"  Ebenezer  raised  up  onto  his  elbow.  'Where  is  she,  Anna?" 

"The  sight  of  you  and  John  McEvoy  was  too  much  for  her,"  Anna  said. 
"She  swooned  in  the  vestibule  and  was  fetched  off  to  bed— 'twas  another 
grand  moment  for  Father,  as  you  can  fancy,  the  day  he  learned  she  was 
your  wife  (that  he  himself  once  paid  six  pounds  to),  and  another  when  he 
learned  she  wasn't  Susan  Warren  but  the  same  woman  you  knew  in  London! 
He  swears  the  match  is  null  and  void,  and  rants  and  rages;  but  withal  he 
hath  not  abused  her,  if  only  because  Henry " 

"No  matter!"  Ebenezer  insisted;  a  number  of  people  could  be  heard 
ascending  the  stairs.  "Quickly,  prithee,  Anna!  What  is  her  condition?" 

"The  swoon  was  only  the  last  straw  on  her  back,"  Anna  answered  soberly. 
"Her— her  social  disease  hath  not  improved,  nor  hath  her  need  for  devilish 
opium,  nor  hath  her  general  health,  that  was  long  since  spent  out  in  the 
curing-house*  Dr.  Sowter  hath  examined  her  and  declares  she's  a  dying 
woman." 

'TGod!"  the  poet  moaned.  "I  must  see  her  at  once!  I'll  die  before  her!" 
Against  Anna's  protests  he  endeavored  to  get  out  of  bed,  but  immediately 
upon  sitting  up  grew  hopelessly  dizzy  and  fell  back  on  the  pillow.  "Poor 
wretchl  Poor  saintly,  martyred  wretch!" 

His  lamentations  were  cut  short  by  a  commotion  of  visitors  led  by  Henri- 
etta Russecks,  First  in  were  his  father  and  Henry  Burlingame. 

"Dear  Eben!"  Henry  cried,  hurrying  up  to  grasp  both  his  hands.  "What 
adventures  are  these  you  deserted  me  for?"  He  raised  his  head  to  Andrew, 
who  stood  uneasily  on  the  other  side  of  the  bed.  "Nay,  tell  me  truly,  Mr. 
Cooke:  is't  a  bad  son  that  saves  a  province?" 

Ebenezer  could  only  smile:  his  heart  was  full  of  sentiments  too  strong 
and  various  to  permit  reply.  He  and  his  father  regarded  each  other  silently 
and  painfully,  "I  am  heartily  sorry,  Father/'  he  began  after  a  moment,  but 
his  voice  was  choked  at  once,  and  he  could  not  see  through  his  tears. 

Andrew  laid  his  left  hand  on  Ebenezer's  brow— the  first  such  solicitude 
in  the  poet's  memory.  "I  told  ye  once  in  St.  Giles,  Eben:  to  beg  forgiveness 
is  the  bad  son's  privilege,  and  to  grant  it  the  bad  father's  duty."  To  the 
room  in  general  he  announced,  "The  lad  hath  fever  yet.  State  thy  business 
and  have  done  with't,  Sir  Thomas." 

Three  other  men  had  come  into  the  room:  Richard  Sowter,  Colonel 


[  75°  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Robotham,  and  a  courtly,  white-wigged  gentleman  in  his  fifties  who  bowed 
slightly  to  Andrew  and  Ebenezer  in  turn. 

"Thomas  Lawrence,  sir,  of  the  Governor's  Council/'  he  said,  "and  most 
honored  to  meet  you!  Pray  forgive  me  for  imposing  on  your  rest  and 
recuperation,  so  well  deserved,  but  none  knows  better  than  yourself  how 
grave  and  urgent  is  our  business " 

Ebenezer  waved  off  the  apology.  "My  sister  hath  apprised  me  of  your 
errand,  for  which  thank  God  and  Governor  Nicholson!  Our  peril  is  greater 
than  anyone  suspects,  sir,  and  the  sooner  dealt  with,  the  better  for  all." 

"Excellent.  Then  let  me  ask  you  whether  you  think  yourself  strong 
enough  to  speak  this  afternoon  to  Governor  Nicholson  and  myself/' 

"Nicholson!"  Sowter  exclaimed.  "St.  Simon's  saw,  sirs!"  Andrew  too, 
and  Colonel  Robotham,  seemed  disquieted  by  the  Council  President's 
words. 

Sir  Thomas  nodded.  "Mister  Lowe  here  hath  informed  me  that  the 
Governor  went  to  Oxford  yesterday  and,  being  notified  of  Mister  Cooke's 
rescue,  plans  to  cross  to  Maiden  today.  We  expect  him  hourly.  What  say 
you,  sir?" 

"I  am  quite  ready  and  most  eager  to  report  to  him,"  Ebenezer  said. 

"Very  good.  The  Province  is  in  your  debt,  sir!" 

"I  say "  Colonel  Robotham  had  become  quite  florid;  his  round  eyes 

glanced  uneasily  from  Ebenezer  to  Andrew  to  Sir  Thomas.  "I've  no  doubt 
this  lad's  a  hero  and  hath  business  of  great  moment  with  the  Governor; 
I've  no  wish  to  seem  preoccupied  in  selfish  concerns  or  appear  ungrateful 
to  His  Majesty's  secret  operatives,  whose  work  requires  them  to  assume 
false  names " 

"Out  on't,  George!"  snapped  Andrew.  "Mister  Lowe  here  may  well  be  the 
Governor's  agent,  or  King  William's,  or  the  Pope's,  for  aught  I  know,  but 
this  lad  is  my  son  Eben  and  there's  an  end  on'tJ  Heav'n  forgive  me  for 
conniving  with  Mister  Lowe  to  deceive  the  lot  o'  ye,  and  Heav'n  be  praised 
for  bringing  my  son  back  from  the  dead,  Maiden  or  no  Maiden!" 

"Enough,"  Sir  Thomas  ordered.  "I  remind  you,  Colonel,  that  the  Prov- 
ince hath  no  small  interest  in  this  estate;  'twas  to  look  into  it  I  came  hither 
in  the  beginning.  If  the  Governor's  willing,  haply  we  can  hold  a  hearing  on 
that  question  this  very  day,  now  Mister  Cooke  is  with  us."  He  further  re- 
minded the  entire  party,  and  especially  Richard  Sowter,  that  they  were 
forbidden  to  leave  the  premises  until  the  matter  had  been  disposed  of, 

"By  the  organ  of  St.  Cecilia!"  Sowter  protested.  "  'Tis  an  infracture  o' 
habeas  corpus!  We'll  hale  ye  to  court,  sir!" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  751  ] 

"Your  privilege/'  Sir  Thomas  replied.  "In  the  meantime,  don't  leave 
Cooke's  Point:  Mister  Lowe  hath  communicated  with  Major  Trippe,  and 
as  of  this  morning  we  have  militiamen  on  the  grounds/' 

This  news  occasioned  general  surprise;  Colonel  Robotham  tugged  at  his 
mustache,  and  Sowter  invoked  Saints  Hyginus  and  Polycarpus  against  such 
highhandedness  on  the  part  of  public  servants.  Sir  Thomas  then  requested 
everyone  to  leave  the  room  except  Anna,  who  had  established  herself  as 
her  brother's  nurse,  and  "Mister  Lowe,"  who  declared  it  imperative  that 
he  not  leave  the  key  witness's  bedside  for  a  moment.  Andrew  seemed  re- 
luctant. "We  shall  have  much  to  say/'  Ebenezer  consoled  him,,  "and  years 
to  say't  Just  now  I'm  dead  for  want  of  food  and  sleep." 

"I'll  fetch  broth  for  ye,"  his  father  grunted,  and  went  out. 

Ebenezer  sighed.  "He  must  soon  be  told  who  you  are,  Henry;  I  am  sick 
unto  death  of  false  identities/' 

"I  shall  tell  him,"  Burlingame  promised,  "now  I  know  myself.  Ffaith,  'tis 
miraculous,  Eben!  I  can  scarcely  wait  to  lay  hands  on  my  father's  book— 
what  did  he  call  it?  The  Book  of  English  Devils!  King  of  the  Ahatchwhoops! 
Miraculous!"  He  held  up  a  tutorial  finger  and  smiled.  "But  not  yet,  Eben: 
nay,  he  oughtn't  to  know  quite  yet.  My  plan  is  to  go  to  Bloodsworth  Island 
as  soon  as  possible— tomorrow,  if  we  settle  our  business  here  today— and  do 
what  I  can  to  pacify  my  father  Chicamec  and  my  brother— what  was  his 
name?" 

Ebenezer  smiled  despite  himself  at  his  tutor's  characteristic  enthusiasm. 
"Cohunkowprets/*  he  said.  "It  means  'Bill-o'-the-Goose.7 " 

"Cohunkowprets!  Splendid  name!  Then  I'll  return  here,  pay  court  to 
your  sister,  and  sue  my  good  friend  Andrew  for  her  hand.  If  he  consents, 
I'll  tell  him  who  I  am  and  ask  him  again;  if  not,  I'll  go  my  way  and  ne'er 
disturb  him  with  the  truth.  Is  that  agreeable  to  the  twain  of  you?" 

Ebenezer  looked  to  his  sister  for  reply.  It  was  clear  to  him  that  her  private 
conversations  with  Burlingame  had  dealt  with  matters  mor6  intimate  than 
The  Book  of  English  Devils;  he  felt  sure  that  Henry  knew  all  that  had 
transpired  not  only  between  Anna  and  Billy  Rumbly  but  also  between 
Anna  and  himself.  She  caught  her  breath  and  shook  her  head,  keeping  her 
eyes  down  on  the  counterpane. 

"  Tis  so  futile,  Henry  .  ,  .  Whatever  could  come  of  it?"  Embarrassment 
kept  her  from  speaking  further. 

"Nay,  how  can  you  despair  after  such  a  miracle  as  Eben's  stumbling  on 
my  parentage?  Only  let  him  gain  his  feet  again  and  he'll  solve  that  other 
riddle  for  me:  the  Magic  of  the  Sacred  Egg-plant,  or  whatever!"  He  gave 


[  752  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

over  his  raillery  and  added  seriously,  "I  proposed  to  Eben  not  long  since 
that  the  three  of  us  take  a  house  in  Pennsylvania;  since  Nature  hath  decreed 
that  I  be  thwarted,  and  Convention  hath  rejected  your  appeal,  whereas  the 
harm  in  being  thwarted  together?  Let  us  live  like  sisters  of  mercy  in  our 
own  little  convent— aye,  I'll  convert  you  to  Cosmophilism,  my  new  religion 
for  thwarted  seekers  after  Truth,  and  we'll  invent  a  gross  of  spiritual 
exercises " 

He  went  on  in  this  vein  until  both  Ebenezer  and  Anna  were  obliged  to 
laugh,  and  the  tension  among  them  was  temporarily  dispelled.  But  Anna 
would  not  commit  herself  on  the  proposal.  "Let  us  attend  to  first  things 
first:  come  back  alive  from  Bloodsworth  Island,  neither  scalped  nor  con- 
verted to  their  religion,  and  we  shall  see  what's  to  be  done  with  ourselves." 
She  forbade  further  discussion  of  the  subject,  and  their  conversation  turned 
to  other  matters. 

"What  came  of  your  pilgrimage  to  John  Coode?"  Ebenezer  asked  Burlin- 
game. 

"Ah,  my  friend,  you've  much  to  forgive  me  for!  How  can  I  excuse  myself 
for  having  deceived  you  so  often,  save  that  I  put  no  faith  in  innocence? 
And  to  plead  thus  is  but  to  offend  you  farther  .  .  ." 

"No  longer/'  Ebenezer  assured  him.  "My  innocence  these  days  is 
severely  technical!  But  what  of  Coode?  Did  you  find  him  to  be  the  savior 
you  took  him  for?" 

Burlingaine  sighed.  "I  ne'er  found  him  at  all."  It  had  been  his  intention, 
he  said,  to  establish  himself  as  Coode's  lieutenant  (in  the  role  of  Nicholas 
Lowe),  the  better  to  learn  what  truth  might  lie  in  certain  current  rumors 
that  Coode  was  organizing  slaves  and  disaffected  Indians  for  another 
rebellion,  to  be  staged  before  Nicholson  could  institute  proceedings  against 
him  on  the  evidence  of  the  1691  Assembly  Journal  But  in  St.  Mary's  City, 
on  the  morning  after  the  same  stormy  night  that  had  carried  Ebenezer  to 
Bloodsworth  Island,  Burlingame  had  encountered  Andrew  Cooke  himself, 
who  he  thought  had  crossed  from  Captain  Mitchell's  place  to  the  Eastern 
Shore.  By  discreet  inquiry,  he  learned  that  Andrew  had  fallen  in  with 
Colonel  Robotham  at  Captain  Mitchell's,  and  upon  hearing  the  Colonel 
refer  to  Ebenezer  as  "my  son-in-law  in  St.  Mary's,"  had  hastened  to  in- 
vestigate as  soon  as  he  recovered  from  the  shock, 

"Well,  friend,"  Burlingame  went  on,  44I  know  now  'twas  our  man  Ber- 
trand  at  the  bottom  oft,  but  at  the  time  I  scarce  knew  what  to  think;  I'd 
searched  all  night  in  vain  for  you  and  finally  got  word  that  Captain  Cairn 
had  sailed  at  dusk  with  the  Laureate  of  Maryland  and  some  long  skinny 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  753  ] 

fellow  and  was  thought  to  be  drowned  in  the  storm.  Your  father  had  learned 
the  state  of  things  at  Maiden  and  was  at  his  wit's  end  for  loss  of  both  his 
heirs  and  his  estate."  When  it  had  seemed  likely  that  Ebenezer  was  either 
dead  or  lost  from  sight,  Burlingame  had  introduced  himself  to  Andrew  as 
Nicholas  Lowe,  "a  steadfast  friend  of  the  Laureate/7  and  declared  further 
that  it  was  he  who  had  posed  as  Ebenezer,  the  better  to  cover  his  friend's 
escape.  This  news  had  redoubled  Andrew's  wrath;  for  some  moments  Bur- 
lingame had  expected  to  be  assaulted  where  he  stood  (in  Vansweringen's 
Tavern).  In  order  to  pacify  him,  therefore,  console  him  in  some  measure  for 
his  loss,  and  at  the  same  time  put  himself  in  a  better  position  to  hear  news 
of  the  twins  and  pursue  his  complex  interests,  Burlingame  had  made  an 
ingenious  proposal:  he  would  continue  to  pose  as  Andrew's  son;  they  would 
go  to  Cooke's  Point  together,  declare  both  the  grantor  of  Maiden  and  the 
husband  of  Lucy  Robotham  to  be  gross  impostors,  and  so  refute  the  claims 
of  colonel  and  cooper  alike, 

"Thus  came  we  hither  arm  in  arm,  the  best  of  friends,  and  save  for  one 
fruitless  visit  to  Church  Creek  to  chase  down  a  rumor  I  caught  wind  of— 
you  know  the  story?  Is't  not  ironic?— save  for  that  visit,  I  say,  here  we've 
sat  to  this  day,  waiting  for  word  from  you  or  Anna.  As  for  the  estate,  Andrew 
and  I  threaten  Smith  and  Sowter,  and  they  threaten  us  in  return,  and  of 
late  the  Colonel  hath  been  threatening  the  lot  of  us;  but  no  one  durst  go 
to  court  lest  he  lose  his  breeches,  the  case  is  such  a  tangle,  or  lest  he  find 
himself  answerable  for  the  whores  and  opium.  What  old  Andrew's  con- 
nection with  them  might  be,  if  he  hath  any,  e'en  I  can't  judge." 
"Thou'rt  not  John  Coode  thyself?"  Anna  asked  half  seriously. 
Henry  shrugged.  "I  have  been,  now  and  again,  and  Lord  Baltimore  as 
well;  for  that  matter,  I  was  once  Francis  Nicholson  himself  for  half  a  day, 
and  three  Mattawoman  tarts  were  ne'er  the  wiser.  But  this  I'll  swear:  albeit 
'tis  hard  for  me  to  think  such  famous  wights  are  pure  and  total  fictions,  to 
this  hour  IVe  not  laid  eyes  on  either  Baltimore  or  Coode.  It  may  be  they 
are  all  that  rumor  swears:  devils  and  demigods,  whichever's  which;  or  it  may 
be  they're  simple  clotpolls  like  ourselves,  that  have  been  legend'd  out  of 
reasonable  dimension;  or  it  may  be  they're  naught  but  the  rumors  and  tales 
themselves/' 

"If  that  last  is  so/'  Ebenezer  said,  "Heav'n  knows  'twere  a  potent  life 
enough!  When  I  reflect  on  the  weight  and  power  of  such  fictions  beside  my 
own  poor  shade  of  a  self,  that  hath  been  so  much  disguised  and  counter- 
feited, methinks  they  have  tenfold  my  substance!" 
Burlingame  smiled  approval.  "My  lad  hath  gone  to  school  with  a  better 


[754]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

tutor  than  his  old  one!  In  any  case,  Francis  Nicholson  exists,  that  is  neither 
a  Coode  nor  a  Calvert,  and  he  counts  Nick  Lowe  as  the  cleverest  spy  he 
knows.  'Twere  indiscreet  to  press  me  farther/' 

There  were  still  a  number  of  questions  on  Ebeneze/s  mind,  but  at  this 
point  the  cook— whom  he  recognized  as  the  old  Parisian  trollop  who  had 
wept  at  his  wedding—brought  up  his  beef  broth,  and  Burlingame  took  the 
opportunity  to  excuse  himself. 

"I  must  see  to't  the  Governor's  not  murthered  on  your  property,  my 
dears."  He  kissed  Anna  lightly  and  unabashedly  on  the  mouth,  as  husband 
kisses  wife,  and  then,  to  the  poet's  surprise,  kissed  him  also,  but  discreetly, 
upon  the  forehead,  more  as  father  might  kiss  son  or,  in  more  demonstrative 
latitudes,  brother  might  kiss  brother.  "Thank  almighty  Zeus  thou'rt  back 
amongst  the  living!"  he  murmured.  "Did  I  not  once  say  there'd  be  great 
commotion  at  thy  fall?" 

Ebenezer  protested  with  a  smile  that,  ruined  and  spent  though  he  was 
indubitably,  as  yet  he  was  not  officially  among  the  fallen,  nor  did  it  appear 
likely  that  he  would  ever  join  their  number.  Burlingame  responded  with  a 
characteristic  shrug  and  departed. 

"Heav'n  knows  our  other  problems  are  far  more  grave,"  Anna  sighed, 
"but  I  cannot  give  o'er  my  concern  for  that  man  and  for  the  three  of  us!" 
"Will  you  marry  him?"  asked  her  brother. 

Anna  too  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "What  is  the  use  oft?  As  well  go  off 
with  him,  as  I  did  with  his  brother,  and  live  in  sin."  So  peculiarly  inapposite 
was  the  phrase,  under  the  circumstances,  that  both  twins  had  to  smile.  But 
then  Anna  shook  her  head.  "What  I  most  fear  is  that  he'll  not  return  from 
Bloodsworth  Island." 

This  notion  surprised  Ebenezer.  "You  fear  Billy  Rumbly  might  do  him 
in  from  jealousy?  I'd  not  thought  of  that." 

"Nay,"  said  Anna.  "Formidable  as  Billy  may  be,  he  is  no  match  for 
Henry,  and  there's  the  danger." 

Ebenezer  saw  her  point  and  shivered:  how  slight  and  qualified  were 
Henry's  ties  to  the  cause  of  Western  Civilization  (to  say  nothing  of  English 
colonialism!),  than  which  his  mind  and  interests  were  so  enormously  more 
complex  that  it  seemed  parochial  by  comparison!  Had  he  not  already  been 
a  pirate  and  perhaps  an  agent  for  Heaven  knew  what  Satanic  conspiracy? 
Had  he  not  extolled  the  virtues  of  every  sort  of  perversity,  and  pointed  out 
to  Ebenezer  man's  perennial  fascination  with  violence,  destruction,  and 
rapine?  It  was  by  no  means  unthinkable  that,  whatever  his  present  intention, 
Burlingame  would  remain  on  Bloodsworth  Island  to  ally  his  wits  with  those 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  755  ] 

of  Drepacca  and  Quassapelagh;  and  with  three  so  canny,,  potent  adversaries 
—not  to  mention  John  Coode  and  the  shadowy  Monsieur  Casteene— God 
help  the  English  colonies  in  Americal 

The  broth  did  wonders  for  his  strength;  when  he  had  finished  it  he  sent 
Anna  to  express  his  contrition  to  Joan  Toast  and  beg  her  to  allow  him  an 
interview. 

"She  refuses,"  Anna  reported  a  minute  later.  "She  says  she  hath  no 
quarrel  with  me,  but  wishes  to  die  without  having  to  endure  the  sight  of 
another  man.  Not  e'en  Dr.  Sowter  may  come  near  her  anymore." 

As  always  upon  hearing  news  of  her,  Ebenezer  was  stung  to  the  heart 
with  shame.  Nevertheless  he  took  it  as  a  good  sign  that  Joan  had  least  not 
sunk  into  apathy:  where  belligerence  lingered,  he  declared  to  Anna,  life 
lingered  also,  and  while  his  wife  lived  he  did  not  abandon  the  hope,  not  of 
winning  her  forgiveness,  to  which  he  felt  no  title,  but  of  demonstrating  in 
her  presence  the  extent  of  his  wretchedness  at  having  deserted  her.  In  the 
meantime  he  summoned  McEvoy,  who  after  commiserating  with  him  for 
Joan's  condition,  shaking  his  head  at  the  miraculous  coincidence  of  Long 
Ben  Avery's  identity  (which  he  said  quite  substantiated  Ebenezer's  charge 
that  Life  is  a  shameless  playwright),  and  rejoicing  at  the  ladies'  safety,  as- 
sisted the  poet  down  the  hall  to  the  chamber  he  shared  with  Bertrand 
Burton. 

"The  poor  wretch  bolted,  don't  ye  know,  for  fear  Colonel  Robotham  and 
your  father  would  have  his  arse,  and  what  with  Joan  swooned  away  in  the 
vestibule,  and  yourself  froze  up  like  marble,  and  all  the  stir  and  commotion, 
they  ne'er  found  him  till  morning,  near  dead  of  cold.  E'en  so  they  meant 
to  put  him  with  the  servants,  but  Mister  Lowe  and  I  persuaded  'em  to 
bed  him  with  me,  I  fear  the  cold  hath  got  to  him,  poor  devil." 

They  found  the  valet  awake,  but  far  from  healthy.  His  cheeks,  though 
fanned  with  fever  to  an  unnatural  red,  were  pinched  and  drawn;  his  nose 
was  more  sharp  than  ever,  and  angled  like  a  Semite's  at  the  bridge;  his  eyes 
no  longer  pronounced  with  awe,  "There's  a  deal  goes  on  that  your  honest 
wight  ne'er  dreams  of:  round  as  always,  and  protruding,  they  looked  luster- 
less  past  his  beak  like  a  sick  owl's  eyes.  Indeed,  the  cold  had  "got  to  him." 
Jut  as  Burlingame  had  hurried  forward  to  Ebenezer's  bedside,  so  now  the 
poet  hastened  to  his  valet's, 

"Poor  fellow!  You  ought  ne'er  to  have  left  us!" 

Bertrand  smiled  wryly.  "I  ought  ne'er  to  have  left  Pudding  Lane,  sir,"  he 
said,  his  voice  half  croak  and  half  whisper.  "Your  servingman  had  better 
face  his  Ralph  Birdsalls  than  play  at  Laureates  and  Advisers,  whatever  his 


[756]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

gifts.  Hadn't  we  a  lark,  though,  the  day  we  were  Drakepecker's  gods  and 
thought  we'd  found  the  golden  city?" 

Ebenezer  wanted  to  protest  that  his  servant  was  talking  like  a  doomed 
man,  but  he  checked  himself  lest  the  figure  be  read  for  a  prophecy. 

"Indeed,  that  was  a  splendid  day,"  he  agreed.  "And  we  shall  have  many 
another,  Bertrand,  you  and  I."  He  assured  his  man  that  neither  Andrew  nor 
himself  felt  anything  but  solicitude  for  his  infirmity,  from  which  they  all 
prayed  for  his  swift  recovery;  while  they  regretted  his  having  gambled  away 
the  title  to  Maiden  and  having  wed  Lucy  Robotham  under  false  pretenses, 
they  appreciated  his  good  intentions  in  both  instances  and  had  no  fear  of 
losing  Cooke's  Point  on  his  account.  "As  for  the  Colonel,  he  hath  cause 
enough  to  be  wrathful,  and  Lucy's  case  is  pitiful  enough,  but  Heaven  knows 
they  brought  it  upon  themselves!  In  any  case,  they  shan't  lay  a  hand  upon 
you.  Get  you  well,  man,  and  advise  me,  or  let  me  freight  you  back  to  Betsy 
Birdsall!" 

But  the  valet  was  not  to  be  drawn  from  his  mood:  he  sighed  and,  rendered 
incoherent  by  his  fever,  spoke  unintelligibly  of  ratafia,  Great  Bears,  and 
women's  wiles.  He  would  express  quite  lucidly  his  chagrin  at  not  having 
guessed  Betsy  Birdsall's  scheme  to  save  him  by  unmanning  her  husband, 
and  almost  in  the  same  breath  begin  to  rave  about  Cibola,  the  Fortunate 
Islands,  and  the  Sunken  Land  of  Buss. 

"Ye  must  own,"  he  said  slyly  at  one  point,  "I  had  some  knack  for  playing 
poet.  .  .  ." 

"No  knack,  i'faith,"  Ebenezer  wept.  "A  very  genius!" 

Bertrand  lapsed  once  more  into  mild  delirium,  and  at  Anna's  suggestion 
the  two  men  left  him  to  be  attended  by  her  and  Mrs.  Russecks,  who  under 
Richard  Sowter's  supervision  had  assumed  responsibility  for  all  of  Maiden's 
invalids.  Ebenezer  returned  to  his  own  room  for  a  short  nap,  after  which, 
and  a  heartier  refection  than  his  first,  he  declared  himself  ready  to  report  if 
need  be  to  God  Himself. 

"Then  I  shall  send  for  Governor  Nicholson  to  come  up,"  replied  Burlin- 
game,  to  whom  he  had  made  the  boast.  "He  arrived  while  you  slept  and 
hath  given  everyone  the  vapors  by  refusing  to  hear  a  word  about  the  estate 
ere  he  speaks  with  you.  But  I  resolved  to  make  him  wait  till  you  had  done 
eating." 

Despite  his  apprehension  at  meeting  the  Governor,  Ebenezer  had  to 
smile.  "Did  I  tell  you  that  your  brother  hath  that  same  maddening  habit?" 

"Nay,  that's  marvelous!  Hath  he  really?  I  cannot  wait  to  end  this  tire- 
some business  and  fly  to  him!" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  757  ] 

On  this  ambiguous  note  Henry  went  belowstairs;  he  returned  very  shortly 
afterwards  in  the  wake  of  Francis  Nicholson,  Royal  Governor  of  the  Prov- 
ince of  Maryland,  a  man  of  Burlingame's  brief  height  and  robust  frame, 
though  a  dozen  years  older  and  somewhat  gone  to  stomach.  He  had  the 
plum-velvet  breeches,  the  great  French  periwig,  the  fastidious  manicure, 
and  the  baby-pink  face  of  a  dandy;  but  his  great  jaw  and  waspish  eyes,  the 
snap  of  his  voice  and  the  brusqueness  of  his  manner,  belied  all  foppery. 
He  strode  into  the  room  without  asking  leave,  leaned  heavily  upon  his 
silver-headed  stick,  and  peered  at  the  patient  through  his  glasses  with  a 
mixture  of  eagerness,  curiosity,  and  skepticism,  as  if  Ebenezer  were  one  of 
those  stranded  whales  to  which  his  royal  commission  gave  him  title,  and  he 
was  not  certain  whether  the  oil  would  be  worth  the  flensing.  Burlingame 
stood  by,  amused;  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  catching  up  breathlessly  to  the 
others,  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

"Good  evening  to  you,  Your  Excellency/'  Ebenezer  ventured.  "I  am 
Ebenezer  Cooked 

"  'Sheart,  ye  had  better  be!"  cried  the  Governor.  His  air  was  curt  but  not 
unkind,  and  he  laughed  along  with  the  others.  "So  this  is  Charles  Calvert's 
laureate,  that  we  hear  such  a  deal  about!" 

"Nay,  Your  Excellency,  'twas  ne'er  an  honest  title " 

"The  Governor  will  have  his  jest,"  interposed  Sir  Thomas.  "Mister  Lowe 
hath  apprised  us  already  of  the  circumstances  of  your  commission,  Mister 
Cooke,  and  the  sundry  trials  and  impostures  wherewith  it  burthened  you." 
"Tis  not  a  bad  idea  at  that,"  declared  Nicholson,  "albeit  Til  wager  old 
Baltimore  did  it  merely  to  play  at  being  king.  Only  give  me  time  to  found 
myself  a  college  in  Annapolis— that's  what  I  call  Anne  Arundel  Town- 
just  grant  me  a  year  to  build  a  school  there,  and  whether  these  penny- 
pinching  clotpolls  like  it  or  no,  we'll  have  ourselves  a  book  or  two  in  Mary- 
land! Aye,  and  belike  a  poet  may  find  somewhat  to  sing  about  then,  eh, 
Nick?" 

"I  daresay,"  Burlingame  replied,  and  added,  upon  the  Governor's  further 
inquiring,  that  he  had  established  communication  with  a  certain  Virginia 
printer  and,  in  accordance  with  Nicholson's  directive,  was  endeavoring  to 
hire  the  fellow  away  from  Governor  Andros  to  set  up  shop  in  Maryland. 
For  a  time  it  looked  as  if  Ebenezer  had  been  forgotten,  but  without  tran- 
sition the  Governor  turned  to  him— indeed,  turned  on  him,  so  formidable 
was  the  man's  usual  expression— and  demanded  to  hear  without  more  ado 
the  details  of  "this  fantastical  story  of  slaves  and  salvages."  His  apparent 
skepticism  put  the  poet  off  at  first— he  commenced  the  story  falteringly  and 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

with  misgivings,  almost  doubting  its  truth  himself— but  he  soon  discovered 
that  the  Governor's  incredulity  was  only  a  mannerism.  "Absurd!"  Nicholson 
would  scoff  on  being  told  that  Drepacca  was  in  communication  with  the 
northern  chiefs,  but  his  pink  brow  would  darken  with  concern;  by  the  time 
he  called  the  story  of  Burlingame's  true  name  and  parentage  "a  bold-arsed 
fraud  and  turdsome  lie/'  Ebenezer  was  able  to  translate  the  obscenities 
accurately  to  read  "the  damn'dest  miracle  I  e'er  heard  tell  of!"  In  short, 
though  he  protested  his  utter  disbelief  at  every  pause  in  the  poet's  relation, 
Ebenezer  felt  confident,  as  did  Burlingame,  that  he  accepted  every  word  of 
it:  not  only  the  grand  perils  of  the  Negro-Indian  conspiracy  and  the  traffic 
in  whores  and  narcotics,  but  also  such  details  as  the  illicit  trade  in  redemp- 
tioners  practised  by  Slye  and  Scurry,  the  depredations  of  Andros's  "coast 
guard"  Thomas  Pound  (upon  learning  of  which  he  rubbed  his  hands  in 
delighted  anticipation  of  embarrassing  his  rival),  and  the  duplicity  of  the 
Poseidon's  Captain  Meech— whom,  ironically,  Nicholson  had  recently  hired 
to  cruise  against  illegal  traders  in  the  provincial  sloop  Speedwell. 

"Sweet  Mother  o'  Christ!"  he  swore  at  the  end.  "What  a  nest  o'  wolves 
and  vipers  I'm  sent  to  govern!"  He  turned  to  his  lieutenants.  "What  say  ye, 
gentlemen:  shall  we  make  for  Barbados  and  leave  this  scurfy  province  to  the 
heathen?  And  you,  you  wretch!"  He  aimed  his  stick  at  Burlingame.  "You 
go  about  posing  as  a  proper  Talbot  gentleman,  and  all  the  while  thou'rt  a 
bloody  salvage  prince!  Marry  come  up!  Marry  come  up!" 

Burlingame  winked  at  Ebenezer.  For  some  moments  Governor  Nicholson 
paced  about  the  bedroom,  stabbing  at  the  floorboards  with  his  stick.  At 
length  he  stopped  and  glared  at  his  Council  President 

"Well,  damn  it,  Tom,  can  we  prosecute  this  Coode  or  not?  Twill  be  one 
rascal  the  less  to  deal  with,  and  then  we  can  look  to  arming  the  militia." 
Aside  to  Ebenezer  he  confessed,  "If  the  truth  be  known,  weVe  more  balls 
in  our  breeches  than  we  have  in  the  bloody  armory." 

Sir  Thomas  appealed  to  Burlingame  for  a  reply  and  received  a  tongue- 
lashing  from  His  Excellency  for  having  to  get  his  answers  from  "a  red- 
skinned  spy." 

"We  can  prosecute  whene'er  we  find  him,  sir,"  Burlingame  declared,  'T>ut 
we'll  need  to  choose  our  judges  with  care,  and  e'en  so  there's  a  chance 
he'll  get  off  lightly."  One  portion  of  the  1691  Assembly  Journal,  the  Prov- 
ince's most  damning  evidence  against  Coode  and  the  "Protestant  Asso- 
ciators,"  had  yet  to  be  retrieved,  he  explained;  though  its  relevance  to  the 
tale  of  his  own  ancestry  was  presumably  slight  (it  was  that  portion  of  Sir 
Henry  Burlingame's  Privie  Journdl  which  dealt,  so  William  Smith  had 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  759  ] 

vaguely  averred,  with  the  Englishmen's  escape  from  the  Emperor  Powha- 
tan),  its  importance  as  evidence  might  be  very  great  indeed.  "Tis  in  the 
possession  of  that  loutish  cooper  belowstairs,"  he  concluded,  "who  will  not 
part  with't  for  love  nor  money.  Howbeit,  we  may  threaten  it  loose  from 
him  yet,  and  once  I've  seen  it  we  shall  look  for  the  Reverend  General 
Coode." 

"We  shall  have  it,  right  enough,"  Nicholson  muttered,  "ere  this  day  is 
done.  If  I'm  to  be  massacred  by  the  heathen,  I  want  to  see  that  rascal 
Coode  in  Hell  before  me." 

"There's  a  more  worrisome  business,"  said  Burlingame.  "You  know  as 
well  as  I  that  if  the  Negroes  and  salvages  take  a  mind  to,  they  can  murther 
every  white  man  in  America  by  spring— more  especially  with  three  or  four 
good  generals."  It  was  his  intention,  he  said,  to  go  in  any  case  to  Bloods- 
worth  Island  as  soon  as  possible  and  present  himself  to  the  Tayac  Chicamec 
and  Cohunkowprets;  there  was  every  chance  that  they  would  doubt  his 
identity,  as  he  had  no  proof  of  it,  but  if  by  some  miracle  they  should  be- 
lieve him,  he  would  endeavor  to  depose  his  brother  and  set  Quassapelagh 
and  Drepacca  against  each  other.  Faction  and  intrigue,  he  was  convinced, 
were  the  only  weapons  that  could  save  the  English  until  their  position  was 
considerably  stronger  in  America. 

"Ye'll  not  live  past  your  preamble,"  Nicholson  scoffed.  "The  brutes  are 
slow,  but1  they're  not  stupid  enough  to  bow  to  any  Englishman  that  strolls 
in  and  declares  he's  their  king," 

"Ah,  well,  'tis  not  a  role  that  any  Englishman  could  play.  Not  that  I 
claim  any  special  talent,  sir— on  the  contrary,  this  role  wants  a  most  par- 
ticular shortcoming,  doth  it  not,  Eben?"  He  proceeded  to  describe  quite 
candidly  the  congenital  infirmity  which  he  had  inherited  from  Sir  Henry 
Burlingame,  his  grandfather,  and  which  he  meant  to  employ  by  way  of 
credentials  on  Bloodsworth  Island.  The  Governor  was  astonished,  sympa- 
thetic, and  vulgarly  amused  by  turns:  he  declared  that  the  stratagem  would 
surely  fail  nonetheless  if  the  Indians  had  even  one  self-respecting  skeptic 
in  their  number— "D'ye  think  old  Ulysses  would  have  scrupled  to  eunuch 
Sinon  if  he'd  judged  it  to  his  purpose?"  he  demanded— but  for  the  present, 
at  least,  he  could  offer  no  better  proposal.  He  turned  to  Ebenezer,  all  the 
surliness  gone  for  once  from  his  face  and  manner,  and  asked,  "Have  ye  aught 
else  to  tell  me  now,  my  boy?  Ye  have  not?  God  bless  ye,  then,  for  your 
courage  and  reward  ye  for  your  trials:  if  thou'rt  half  as  much  a  poet  as 
thou'rt  a  man,  ye  deserve  a  better  laureateship  than  Maryland's." 

And  having  extended  himself  so  vulnerably  into  sentiment,  he  retreated 


[  jfo  ]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

into  character  before  the  poet  could  find  words  to  express  his  gratitude. 
"Now  then,  Tom,  I  want  every  wight  and  trollop  on  the  premises  assembled 
in  the  parlor,  saving  only  that  one  poor  devil  that's  mad  with  his  fever. 
We'll  hold  us  a  find  court-baron  here  and  now,  as  Charlie  Calvert  was 
wont  to  do  when  things  grew  tame,  and  rule  on  the  patent  to  this  estate 
ere  moonrise." 

"Very  well,  sir!"  replied  Sir  Thomas.  ''But  I  must  remind  you  what  Judge 
Hammaker " 

"My  arse  to  Hammaker,  let  him  take  a  toast  in't!"  cried  the  Governor, 
and  Ebenezer  could  not  help  recalling  a  certain  libelous  story  once  told  him 
by  Bertrand.  "Stir  thy  stumps,  there,  Nicholas  me  lad— nay,  what  is't,  now? 
Henry?  FChrist,  a  fit  name  for  a  codless  Machiavel!  Ring  in  the  parishioners 
to  be  judged,  Henry  Burlingame:  Tom  here  shall  play  old  Minos,  and  I'll 
be  Rhadamanthus!" 


20:    THE  POET  COMMENCES  HIS  DAY  IN  COURT 


INASMUCH  AS  THE  QUESTION  OF  MALDEN^S  OWNERSHIP  HAD  BEEN  UPPER- 

most  in  everyone's  mind  for  several  days  at  least,  it  was  not  long  before  Gov- 
ernor Nicholson  was  able  to  call  his  extraordinary  court  to  order  in  the  front 
parlor— that  same  room  into  which  the  castaways  had  peered  some  four 
nights  previously.  All  the  interested  parties  were  present,  including  at  least 
one  who  seemed  to  wish  he  were  somewhere  else:  two  troopers  of  the  Dor- 
chester County  Militia,  it  was  made  known,  had  intercepted  William  Smith 
on  the  beach  not  far  from  the  house,  and  the  discomfort  in  his  face  belied  his 
solemn  avowal  that  he  had  sought  only  a  breath  of  fresh  air.  The  two  judges 
established  themselves  at  the  green  baize  table  with  their  backs  to  the 
hearth  and  arranged  the  others  in  a  large  half  circle  about  them;  Henry 
Burlingame  was  equipped  with  paper  and  quill  and  stationed  on  Nichol- 
son's left,  opposite  Sir  Thomas,  whence  he  surveyed  the  assembled  com- 
pany with  interest  and  vast  amusement. 

Ebenezer,  who  had  taken  the  trouble  to  dress  himself  for  the  occasion, 
sat  upon  the  arm  of  Anna's  chair  on  the  extreme  right  of  the  semicircle  (as 
viewed  from  the  judges7  position) ;  though  he  naturally  desired  that  the  title 
to  Cooke's  Point  should  return  to  his  father,  all  his  past  anxiety  had  been 
washed  out  of  him  by  the  great  events  and  revelations  of  his  recent  past: 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  761  ] 

his  excitement  was  that  of  pure  anticipation,  different  only  in  degree  from 
what  he'd  felt  some  months  before  in  the  courtyard  at  Cambridge.  In  keep- 
ing with  her  new  tranquility,  Anna  had  brought  a  piece  of  needlework  with 
her,  which  seemed  to  absorb  her  whole  attention;  one  would  have  thought 
her  altogether  uninterested  in  the  disposition  of  the  estate.  On  her  right 
sat  Andrew  Cooke,  smoking  his  pipe  so  fiercely  and  steadily  that  the  wreath- 
ing smoke  seemed  to  come  not  from  his  mouth  but  through  his  pores,  from 
the  heart  of  the  man  himself.  From  time  to  time  he  cast  great  frowning 
glances  at  his  two  children,  as  if  afraid  they  might  vanish  before  his  eyes  or 
change  into  someone  else;  for  the  rest,  he  stared  impatiently  ahead  at  the 
green  baize  table  and  sipped  at  a  glass  of  the  rum  that  Nicholson  had 
ordered  served  around. 

Never  once  did  he  turn  his  eyes  to  the  leather  couch  beside  him,  where 
sat  Roxanne  Russecks,  Henrietta,  and  John  McEvoy,  though  his  very  avoid- 
ance proved  him  much  aware  of  the  lady's  presence.  There  was  gossip,  Anna 
had  reported  to  Ebenezer,  of  a  reconciliation  between  the  old  lovers. 
Neither  of  them  would  speak  of  the  matter  directly— Roxanne  protested 
her  eternal  devotion  to  the  memory  of  Benjamin  Long,  and  Andrew  pro- 
tested his  to  the  memory  of  Anne  Bowyer  Cooke— but  the  miller's  widow, 
for  all  her  serenity,  was  uncommonly  full  of  life;  her  brown  eyes  flashed, 
and  she  seemed  always  to  be  relishing  some  private  joke.  And  Andrew, 
when  his  daughter  had  extolled  Roxanne's  virtues,  upbraided  him  for 
deserting  such  a  prize,  declared  her  affection  for  Henrietta,  and  assured 
him  that  neither  she  nor  Ebenezer  would  consider  his  remarriage  an  affront 
to  their  mother's  sacred  memory— Andrew  had  been  covered  with  confusion 
and,  without  affirming  or  denying  the  rumors,  had  advised  Anna  to  look  to 
her  own  betrothal  before  arranging  his.  Ebenezer  had  not  realized  thitherto 
that  his  father  was  not  so  hopelessly  ancient  after  all,  but  a  mere  mid-fifty  or 
thereabouts— no  older  to  Burlingame,  for  example,  than  Burlingame  was 
to  the  twins-— and  still  quite  virile-looking  despite  his  greying  beard,  his 
withered  arm,  and  his  late  ill-health,  which  had  left  him  gaunt-faced  as  an 
eagle. 

Beside  Roxanne,  in  the  middle  of  the  group,  sat  the  reunited  lovers 
Henrietta  and  John  McEvoy,  about  whom  there  were  no  rumors  at  all: 
they  made  no  secret  of  their  feelings  for  each  other,  and  everyone  assumed 
that  their  betrothal  would  soon  be  announced.  On  their  right  along  the 
other  arc  sat  Richard  Sowter,  William  Smith,  Lucy  Robotham,  and  the 
Colonel,  her  father,  in  that  order— rather,  all  sat  except  Colonel  Robotham, 
florid  to  the  point  of  apoplexy,  who  fussed  hither  and  thither  behind  the 


]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

chair  in  which  his  daughter  scowled  with  shame,  her  condition  well  advanced 
beyond  disguise.  The  cooper  glowered  at  his  shoes  and  nodded  impatiently 
from  time  to  time  at  whatever  Sowter  whispered  him:  he  would  not  look  at 
all  towards  Ebenezer,  or  towards  the  militiaman  in  Scotch  cloth,  musket 
at  the  ready,  whom  Nicholson  had  promoted  to  sergeant-at-arms  five 
minutes  previously. 

For  want  of  a  gavel,  the  Governor  rapped  the  edge  of  the  table  with  his 
stick. 

"Very  well,  dammee,  this  court-baron  is  called  to  order.  Our  trusted 
friend  Nick  Lowe  hath  devised  a  clever  code  for  taking  down  the  spoken 
word,  and  on  the  strength  oft  we  here  appoint  him  clerk  of  this  court/' 

Ebenezer  saw  a  manifold  opportunity  in  the  situation.  "IFt  please  Your 
Excellency "  he  ventured. 

"It  doth  not,"  snapped  Nicholson.  "Ye'll  have  ample  time  to  speak  thy 
piece  anon." 

"  Tis  with  regard  to  the  clerk/'  Ebenezer  insisted,  and  drew  raised  eye- 
brows from  the  bench  as  well  as  from  the  semicircle.  "In  view  of  the  extraor- 
dinary complexity  of  the  business  at  hand,  wherein  the  matter  of  identities 
hath  such  importance,  methinks  'twere  wise  to  establish  a  firm  principle  at 
the  outset:  that  no  actions  be  taken  by  the  Court  or  testimony  heard  save 
under  the  true  and  bona  fide  identities  of  all  concerned,  lest  doubt  be  cast 
on  the  legality  of  the  Court's  rulings.  To  this  end  I  request  Your  Excellency 
to  appoint  and  swear  the  clerk  by's  actual  name." 

Anna  was  understandably  alarmed  by  this  proposal,  and  the  others— 
especially  Andrew— were  perplexed  by  it;  but  both  Nicholson  and  Sir 
Thomas  clearly  appreciated  the  poet's  strategy  of  establishing  a  precedent 
favorable  to  his  case,  and  with  a  little  nod  Burlingame  signaled  his  approval 
of  Ebenezefs  other  intention. 

"Unquestionably  the  wisest  procedure,"  Nicholson  agreed,  and  declared 
to  the  room:  "Be't  known  that  Nicholas  Lowe  is  our  good  friend's  nom  de 
guerre,  as't  were,  and  we  here  appoint  him  clerk  o'  the  court  under  his  true 
name,  Henry  Burlingame  the  Third— do  I  have  it  right,  Henry?" 

Burlingame  affirmed  the  identification  with  another  nod,  but  his  at- 
tention, like  the  twins',  was  on  Andrew  Cooke,  who  had  gone  white  at 
mention  of  the  name. 

"Marry  come  up!"  laughed  McEvoy,  unaware  of  the  situation.  "Is't 
really  you,  Heniy?  There's  no  end  o'  miracles  these  days!  Did  ye  hear, 
Henrietta " 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  763  ] 

Henrietta  hushed  him;  Andrew  had  risen  stiffly  to  his  feet,  glaring  at 
Burlingame. 

"As  God  is  my  witness!"  he  began,  and  was  obliged  to  pause  and  swallow 
several  times  to  contain  his  emotion.  "I  will  see  thee  in  Hell,  Henry  Burlin- 
game  " 

He  actually  advanced  a  step  towards  the  table  as  if  to  assault  his  enemy 
then  and  there.  Ebenezer  moved  forward  and  caught  his  arm. 

"Sit  down,  Father:  you've  no  just  quarrel  with  Henry,  nor  ever  did  have. 
Tis  I  you  must  rail  at,  not  Henry  and  Anna/' 

Andrew  stared  at  his  son's  face  incredulously,  and  at  the  hand  that  re- 
strained him;  but  he  made  no  move  to  go  farther.  Ebenezer  blushed  at  his 
own  temerity  and  released  his  grip  at  once. 

"Aye,  go  to,  Andrew/'  said  Mrs.  Russecks.  "Thou'rt  the  defendant  in 
that  affair,  not  the  plaintiff.  For  that  matter,  a  deceiver  hath  little  ground  to 
complain  of  deception." 

4*I  quite  agree!"  said  Colonel  Robotham,  and  then  cleared  his  throat 
uncomfortably  under  a  whimsical  look  from  Burlingame. 

Nicholson  rapped  for  order,  "Ye  may  settle  your  private  differences 
anon/*  he  declared.  "Be  seated,  Mister  Cooke." 

Andrew  did  as  he  was  bade;  Roxanne  leaned  over  to  whisper  something 
in  his  ear,  and  Anna  patted  her  brother's  hand  admiringly.  Ebenezer's  pulse 
was  still  fast,  but  a  wink  from  Henry  Burlingame  warmed  his  heart.  A  mo- 
ment later,  however,  it  was  his  turn  to  be  shaken:  the  French  kitchen- 
woman  came  to  the  door  with  a  whispered  message,  which  was  relayed  to 
the  Governor  by  the  militiamen  who  blocked  her  entry;  it  seemed  to  consist 
of  two  parts,  the  first  of  which  he  acknowledged  with  a  nod,  the  second 
with  an  oath* 

"Yell  be  pleased  to  know,  Madame  Russecks,"  he  announced,  "thy 
friend  Captain  Avery  hath  given  us  the  slip  and  is  on  his  way  to  Philadel- 
phia, where  I'm  sure  he'll  find  snug  harbor  and  no  dearth  o'  companions." 

Roxanne  replied  that  neither  her  old  affection  for  Long  Ben  Avery  nor 
her  recent  obligation  to  him  blinded  her  to  the  viciousness  of  his  piracies; 
she  would  thank  His  Excellency  to  recall  that  it  was  she  who  had  reported 
Avery 's  whereabouts,  and  not  to  embarrass  her  by  insinuations  of  a  relation- 
ship that  did  not  exist, 

"I  quite  agree/'  said  Andrew.  Ebenezer  and  Anna  exchanged  glances  of 
surprise,  and  the  Governor,  who  seemed  impressed  by  Roxanne's  spirit, 
nodded  his  apologies. 

"I  am  farther  advised  that  one  of  our  invalids  hath  requested  to  join  us, 


[  764  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

and  inasmuch  as  Mr.  Burlingame  believes  her  to  be  a  material  witness  on 
sundry  points,  I  shall  ask  him  to  assist  the  sergeant-at-arms  in  fetching  her 
down  ere  we  commence/' 

Andrew,  Roxanne,  Henrietta,  John  McEvoy— all  looked  soberly  at 
Ebenezer,  whose  features  the  news  set  into  characteristic  turmoil.  For  some 
moments  he  feared  another  onset  of  immobility,  but  at  sight  of  Joan,  borne 
in  on  the  arms  of  her  escorts  like  some  wretch  fetched  fainting  from  a 
dungeon,  he  sprang  from  the  chair  arm. 

"Ah  God!" 

All  the  men  rose  murmuring  to  their  feet;  Andrew  touched  his  son's  arm 
and  cleared  his  throat  once  or  twice  by  way  of  encouragement.  It  was  in- 
deed a  disquieting  sight:  Joan's  face  and  garments  were  free  of  dirt— Anna 
and  Roxanne  had  seen  to  that— but  her  face  was  welted  by  disease,  her 
teeth  were  in  miserable  condition,  and  her  eyes— those  brown  eyes  that 
had  flashed  so  excellently  in  Locket's— were  red  and  ruined.  She  was  no 
older  than  Henrietta  Russecks,  but  her  malaise,  together  with  her  coarse 
woolen  nightdress  and  tangled  coiffure,  made  her  look  like  a  witch  or  an 
ancient  Bedlamite.  McEvoy  groaned  at  the  spectacle*  Lucy  Robotham 
covered  her  eyes  and  whimpered,  Richard  Sowter  sniffed  uncomfortably, 
and  his  client  refused  to  look  at  all.  Joan  being  too  infirm  to  sit  erect,  she 
was  wrapped  in  blankets  on  the  couch  by  Henrietta,  whose  self-conscious 
solicitude  suggested  that  McEvoy  had  kept  no  secrets  from  her. 

Not  until  she  was  settled  on  the  couch  did  Joan  acknowledge  Ebenezer's 
anguished  presence  with  a  stare.  "God  help  and  forgive  me!"  the  poet  cried. 
He  threw  himself  to  his  knees  before  the  couch,  pressed  her  hand  to  his 
mouth  and  wept  upon  it,  meanwhile  burying  his  face  against  her  side  to 
avoid  her  eyes. 

"Order!  Order!"  commanded  Nicholson.  'Te  may  sit  beside  your  wife  if 
ye  choose,  Mister  Cooke,  but  we'll  ne'er  have  done  with  our  business  if  we 
don't  commence  it.  Whatever  ill  the  wretch  hath  done  ye,  Mrs.  Cooke,  'tis 
plain  he's  sorry  for't.  Do  ye  wish  him  to  change  place  with  Mrs.  Russecks 
or  leave  ye  be?" 

"If  wishes  were  buttercakes,  beggers  might  bite''  Joan  replied,  but 
though  the  proverb  was  tart,  her  voice  was  weak  and  hoarse*  "I  ne'er  fared 
worse  than  when  I  wished  for  my  supper!' 

"Whate'er  ye  please,  then,  Mister  Cooke,"  the  Governor  said,  "But 
smartly." 

Mrs.  Russecks  drew  Ebenezer  to  the  place  she  had  vacated,  by  Joan's 
head,  and  herself  took  the  chair  offered  her  by  Andrew  Cooke,  who  regarded 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  765  ] 

his  son  gravely.  Out  of  range  of  her  eyes,  Ebenezer  retained  Joan's  spiritless 
hand  in  his  own;  he  could  not  bear  to  look  at  the  rest  of  the  company,  but 
to  the  left  of  him  he  heard  Anna's  needles  clicking  busily,  and  the  sounds 
went  into  him  like  nails. 

"Now,"  said  Nicholson  dryly,  "I  trust  we  may  get  on  with  our  business. 
The  clerk  will  please  give  the  oath  to  Andrew  Cooke  and  commence  the 
record/' 

"That  man  shan't  swear  me,"  Andrew  declared.  Td  as  lief  take  oath  from 
the  Devil." 

"Any  wight  that  won't  stand  forward  and  be  sworn,"  Nicholson  threat- 
ened, "forfeits  his  claim  to  his  miserable  estate  here  and  now,  and  we'll 
proceed  without  him." 

Thus  coerced,  Andrew  grudgingly  took  the  oath. 
"I  object,  Your  Excellency,"  said  Sowter.  "The  witness  failed  to  raise 
his  right  hand." 

"Objection  be  damned!"  the  Governor  answered.  "He  can  no  more  raise 
his  hand  than  Henry  here  his  cod,  as  any  but  a  blackguard  or  an  addlepate 
might  see.  Now  sit  ye  down,  Mister  Cooke:  inasmuch  as  the  lot  of  ye  have 
some  interest  in  the  case  and  we've  no  regular  courthouse  to  hear  it  in,  I 
here  declare  this  entire  parlor  to  be  our  witness-box.  Ye  may  answer  from 
your  seats." 

"But  St.  Rosalie's  kneebones,  Your  Excellency,"  Sowter  protested.  "Who 
is  the  accused  and  who  the  plaintiff?" 

The  Governor  held  a  brief  conference  on  this  point  with  Sir  Thomas 
Lawrence,  who  then  announced  that,  owing  to  the  unusual  complexity  of 
the  claims  and  allegations,  the  proceedings  would  begin  in  the  form  of  an 
inquest,  to  be  turned  into  a  proper  trial  as  soon  as  issues  were  clarified. 
"  Tis  no  more  than  all  of  us  were  wont  to  do  under  the  Lord  Proprietary," 
he  maintained,  and  Nicholson  added  that  inasmuch  as  his  preliminary  in- 
quiries had  persuaded  him  that  all  the  claims  were  more  or  less  fraudulent 
and  all  the  claimants  more  or  less  loathesome,  no  one  need  fear  favoritism 
on  the  part  of  the  Court;  if  anyone  challenged  the  legality  of  the  proceed- 
ings, he  was  free  to  appeal  the  rulings  to  the  Lords  Commissioners  of  Trade 
and  Plantations.  Sowter  made  no  further  objections,  even  when,  as  if  to 
tempt  him,  Nicholson  took  the  extraordinary  step  of  administering  the  oath 
to  everyone  in  the  room  simultaneously,  obliging  them  to  join  hands  in  a 
chain  from  Burlingame,  who  held  the  Bible,  and  recite  in  chorus. 

"Now,  then,  Mister  Andrew  Cooke "  He  consulted  a  document  on 

the  table  before  him,  "Do  I  understand  that  on  the  fifth  day  of  March,  in 


[j66]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

1662,  you  acquired  this  tract  of  land  from  one  Thomas  Manning  and  Grace 
his  wife  for  the  sum  of  seven  thousand  pounds  of  tobacco,  and  that  subse- 
quently ye  raised  this  house  on't?" 

Andrew  affirmed  the  particulars  of  the  transaction. 

"And  is  it  true  that  from  1670  till  September  last  this  property  was 
managed  for  ye  by  one  Benjamin  Spurdance?" 

"Aye." 

"Where  is  this  Spurdance?"  Nicholson  asked  Burlingame.  "Oughtn't  he 
to  be  here?" 

"We're  endeavoring  to  find  him,"  Henry  said.  "He  seems  to  have  dis- 
appeared somewhere." 

Andrew  then  testified,  in  answer  to  the  Governor's  inquiries,  that  on  the 
first  of  April,  at  his  orders,  Ebenezer  had  embarked  from  Plymouth  to  take 
full  charge  of  the  plantation,  and— grudgingly— that  for  reasons  of  con- 
venience he  had  given  his  son  full  power  of  attorney  in  all  matters  pertinent 
thereto. 

"And  did  he  then,  in  the  Circuit  Court  at  Cambridge  last  September, 
grant  Cooke's  Point  free  and  clear  to  William  Smith?" 

"Aye  and  he  did,  by  good  St.  Wenceslaus,"  Sowter  put  in  firmly.  "Your 
Excellency  hath  the  paper  to  prove  it." 

"He  was  deceived!"  Andrew  shouted.  "In  the  first  place  he  had  no  idea 
'twas  Maiden,  and  what's  more  he  had  no  authority  to  dispose  of  the 
property!" 

"I  fail  to  see  why  not,"  Sowter  argued.  "What  matter  could  be  more 
pertinent  to  the  business  of  a  planter  than  disposing  of  his  plantation?" 

Here  Colonel  Robotham  joined  the  battle,  "This  entire  question  is  be- 
side the  point,  Your  Excellency!  The  wight  that  granted  Cooke's  Point  to 
Smith  was  an  arrant  impostor,  as  Mr.  Cooke  himself  hath  admitted,  and 
my  daughter's  claim  hath  priority  in  any  case—the  red  Ebenezer  Cooke 
lost  the  property  on  a  shipboard  wager  to  the  Reverend  George  Tubman 
in  June,  arid  Tubman  conveyed  the  title  to  my  daughter  ere  ever  this  other 
hoax  was  perpetrated!" 

"A  bald-arsed  lie!"  cried  Sowter,  and  Andrew  agreed. 

Nicholson  stood  up  and  pounded  his  stick  on  the  floor.  "That  will  quite 
do,  dammee!  The  inquest  is  finished!" 

Even  Burlingame  was  astonished  by  this  announcement 

"'Tis  scarce  begun!"  protested  Andrew.  "You've  not  heard  aught  oft 
yet!" 

"Ye'll  refrain  from  speaking  out  of  order,"  said  the  Governor,  "or  be 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  767  ] 

removed  from  this  courtroom.  We  said  at  the  outset  that  directly  we  found 
a  clear  defendant  we'd  end  the  inquest  and  commence  the  trial.  The  in- 
quest is  done/' 

Andrew  beamed.  "Then  you  agree  I'm  the  true  defendant,  and  'tis  for 
these  thieves  to  prove  their  lying  claims?" 

"Not  a  bit  oft/'  Nicholson  answered.  "I  am  the  defendant— that  is  to 
say,  the  Province  o'  Maryland.  We  here  confiscate  the  house  and  grounds 
together,  dammee,  and  'tis  for  the  lot  o'  ye  to  show  cause  why  we  oughtn't 
to  hold  'em  in  His  Majesty's  name." 

"On  what  grounds?"  Sowter  demanded.  "  Tis  a  travesty  o'  justice!" 

Nicholson  hesitated  until  Burlingame,  who  was  clearly  delighted  by  the 
move,  whispered  something  to  him. 

"  Tis  for  the  welfare  o'  the  Province  and  His  Majesty's  plantations  in 
America/'  he  said  then,  "This  house  is  alleged  to  be  the  center  of  a  vicious 
traffic,  which  same  traffic  is  alleged  in  turn  to  be  managed  by  seditious  and 
treasonable  elements  in  the  Province.  Tis  entirely  within  our  rights  as 
Governor  to  confiscate  the  property  of  traitors  and  suspected  traitors  pend- 
ing trial  o1  the  charges  against  'em/' 

"St.  Sever's  tan  yard!  There  are  no  charges  against  anyone!" 

"Quite  so/'  the  Governor  agreed.  "Twere  unjust  to  bring  so  grave  a 
charge  in  a  special  court  and  without  a  hearing.  In  short,  the  lot  o'  ye  are 
under  house  arrest  for  sedition  pending  your  hearing,  and  there'll  be  no 
hearing  till  we  settle  the  title  to  this  estate!" 

Sir  Thomas  himself  was  plainly  dazzled  by  this  casuistry* 

"It  hath  no  precedent!*'  the  Colonel  complained. 

"On  the  contrary/'  Nicholson  said  triumphantly.  "Tis  the  very  trick 
Justice  Holt  employed  for  King  William  to  snatch  the  charter  o'  Maryland 
from  Baltimore." 

The  confiscation  was  promptly  made  official:  Sir  Thomas's  status  was 
changed  from  judge  to  counsel  for  the  defense;  Andrew,  William  Smith, 
and  Lucy  Robotham  were  named  joint  plaintiffs;  and  the  case  of  Cooke  et 
d,  v.  Maryland  was  declared  open. 

"  'Sheart,  now!"  laughed  the  Governor.  "There's  a  piece  o'  courtsman- 
ship  to  remember!"  He  then  ruled  that  Colonel  Robotham,  as  Lucy's 
counsel,  should  be  heard  first,  since  his  claim  antedated  the  others.  The 
Colonel,  much  ill  at  ease,  repeated  the  particulars  of  the  gaming  aboard 
the  Poseidon,  the  final  wager  made  prior  to  the  Laureate's  capture,  by  virtue 
of  which  the  title  to  Cooke's  Point  passed  to  the  Reverend  George  Tubman 


[  y68  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

of  Port  Tobacco  parish,  the  Reverend  Tubman's  marriage  to  Lucy  (subse- 
quently annuled  as  bigamous),  her  acquisition  of  the  title  to  Cooke's 
Point,  and  finally  her  marriage  to  the  Laureate  himself. 

"I  know  that  rascal  Tubman,"  Sir  Thomas  allowed.  "  Twas  his  lecherous 
friend  Peregrine  Cony  that  married  'em,  and  both  have  been  reported 
to  the  Bishop/' 

Nicholson  grunted.  "Now  see  here,  Colonel  Robotham,  thou'rt  a  re* 
sponsible  man  for  all  ye  once  served  with  Coode  and  Governor  Copley; 
if  I  hadn't  thought  ye  a  friend  o'  Justice  I'd  ne'er  have  made  ye  Judge  o'  the 
Admiralty  Court  last  fall.  Thou'rt  an  honest  man  and  a  just  one:  a  credit 
to  the  wretched  Province  .  .  ." 

"I  thankee,  sir,"  muttered  the  Colonel  "Heav'n  knows  I  crave  naught 
save  justice " 

"Then  lookee  yonder  at  that  skinny  fellow  on  the  couch  and  admit  he  is 
no  more  thy  daughter's  husband  than  I  am,  nor  is  he  the  wight  that  made 
the  wager  with  George  Tubman!'7 

"I  never  said  he  was,"  protested  the  Colonel,  who,  however,  would  not 
look  directly  at  Ebenezer.  "Andrew  Cooke  himself  hath  declared  to  all  of 
us " 

"We  know  his  lying  declarations,"  Nicholson  interrupted,  "and  we  know 
as.  well  as  you  do  why  he  called  Henry  here  his  son." 

This  point  Colonel  Robotham  granted  freely.  "He  thought  his  son  was 
dead  and  hoped  to  deceive  me  with  an  impostpr,  But  if  Your  Excellency 
please,  sir,  my  position  is  that  a  man  who  will  disown  his  son  dead  would 
as  lief  disown  him  alive,  and  as  lief  twice  or  thrice  as  once.  My  position, 
sir,  is  that  when  he  learned  how  his  son  had  gambled  away  his  property, 
he  conspired  with  Mister  Lowe-or  Burlingame,  whiche'er  it  is— to  defraud 
us;  and  that  when  my  poor  son-in-law  appeared  with  his  companions  and 
Mister  Burlingame  was  obliged  to  reveal  himself,  Mister  Cooke  callously 
bribed  that  wretch  of  a  servant  to  pose  in  his  place,  I  can  produce  witnesses 
a-plenty  from  the  Poseidon  to  identify  my  daughter's  husband  as  Ebenezer 
Cooke  and  that  treacherous  rascal  as  his  valet;  and  they  will  swear,  as  I  do 
now,  that  oft  and  oft  on  shipboard  he  would  presume  to  his  master's  office 
—a  thoroughgoing  poltroon^  Your  Excellency!" 

The  Governor  shook  his  head.  "I  greatly  fear,  George,  'tis  thy  son-in-law 
upstairs  that  is  the  presumptuous  servant  Much  as  I  deplore  the  scandal 
oft,  and  pity  ye  the  burthen  of  a  short-heeled  daughter,  I  am  altogether 
convinced  that  this  fellow  here  is  the  true  Eben  Cooke.  In  addition  to  the 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [769] 

testimony  of  his  father,  his  sister,  and  Mister  Burlingame,  I  have  here  a 
sworn  affidavit  from  Bertrand  Burton,  the  man  in  yonder  chamber,  that 
Mister  Burlingame  had  the  foresight  to  acquire  before  the  poor  devil  was 
overhauled  by  fever.  I  shall  read  it  aloud  and  hand  it  round  for  your  in- 
spection." 

He  proceeded  to  read  a  confession,  over  Bertrand's  signature,  of  the 
valet's  several  impostures  of  Ebenezer,  his  unauthorized  wager  with  Tub- 
man,  and  his  fraudulent  marriage  to  Lucy  Robotham.  Despite  Ebenezer's 
overwrought  condition,  this  gesture  of  atonement  filled  his  heart. 

"  Tis  but  a  farther  deception!"  the  Colonel  objected.  "They  have  twisted 
a  dying  man's  delirium  to  their  own  ends!" 

"Nay,  George,"  Nicholson  said  gently.  "He  really  is  a  servant  named 
Bertrand  Burton,  I  fear." 

"Ah,  marry!"  Lucy  moaned,  and  seemed  ready  to  swoon.  Mrs.  Russecks 
hurried  to  comfort  her. 

"But  God's  body!"  The  Colonel  clenched  his  fists  and  snorted  like  a 
nervous  dray  horse.  "Behold  my  daughter,  sir!  Fraudulent  or  no,  the  match 
hath  been  consummated!" 

"Beyond  a  reasonable  doubt,"  the  Governor  agreed.  "Methinks  no 
Maryland  court  will  dispute  the  match  unless  thy  daughter  sues  for  annul- 
ment, which  is  her  clear  prerogative.  But  her  husband  is  Bertrand  Burton, 
not  Eben  Cooke,  and  this  Court  here  disallows  her  claim  to  any  part  o'  this 
estate,  either  through  marriage  or  through  this  forgery  of  Tubman's.  D'ye 
have  that,  Burlingame?" 

Henry  nodded.  Andrew  and  Richard  Sowter  smiled  broadly  at  Colonel 
Robotham's  defeat;  and  Ebenezer  too,  though  he  greatly  pitied  both 
father  and  daughter,  felt  enormously  relieved  that  at  least  one  of  the  con- 
tenders was  out  of  the  field.  The  Governor  advised  the  Colonel  that  he 
was  free  to  leave  or  linger,  as  he  pleased. 

"I  shall  leave  this  instant,"  Colonel  Robotham  declared  with  great 
emotion,  "lest  I  commit  murther  on  that  lying  lecher  upstairs.  God  forgive 

him!" 

Properly  hospitable  now  that  their  quarrel  was  settled  to  his  advantage, 
Andrew  offered  to  see  the  Robothams  to  their  carriage,  but  the  Colonel 
refused  the  eourtesy-which  in  any  case  the  Governor  would  not  have  per- 
mitted—and escorted  his  tearful  daughter  from  the  room. 

"So,"  said  Nicholson  with  a  sniff,  "Now,  may  I  assume  we're  all  of  a 
mind  as  to  who  is  Eben  Cooke  and  who  is  not?  Excellent.  Then  as  for 


[  yyo  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

the  quarrel  betwixt  Mister  Smith  and  Mister  Andrew  Cooke,  methinks  it 
hangs  upon  three  main  questions:  a  question  o'  law,  a  question  o'  fact, 
and  another  question  o'  law,  in  that  order.  Did  Eben  Cooke's  power  of 
attorney  give  him  leave  to  dispose  o'  this  estate?  If  so,  did  he  dispose  of  it 
knowingly  or  in  ignorance?  And  if  in  ignorance,  is  the  conveyance  none- 
theless valid  before  the  law?  I  ask  ye  now  to  address  yourselves  to  the  first 
question,  gentlemen." 

Andrew  took  the  floor  first  to  plead  that  while  in  fact  there  was  no 
stipulation  in  his  son's  commission  specifically  forbidding  him  to  dispose 
of  the  estate,  no  reasonable  man  could  question  that  such  was  the  spirit  of 
the  thing—why  would  he  apprentice  the  young  man  to  Peter  Paggen  to 
learn  the  plantation  trade,  if  he  meant  to  dispose  of  his  holdings  in  Mary- 
land? But,  he  added,  if  anyone  -were  carping  enough  to  challenge  his  intent, 
he  offered  in  evidence  a  transcript  of  his  will  and  testament,  prepared  in 
1693,  wherein  he  bequeathed  Cooke's  Point  to  his  children,  share  and  share 
alike.  Did  that  suggest  to  the  Court  that  he  meant  for  his  son  to  dispose  of 
the  property?  Andrew  concluded  with  high  indignation  and  a  red  face. 
When  he  was  finished,  Roxanne  nodded  her  belief  in  the  justice  of  his 
arguments  and  lent  him  her  linen  handkerchief  to  mop  his  brow  with. 

"IFt  please  Your  Excellency/'  Sowter  declared  in  his  turn,  "my  client 
freely  grants  Andrew  Cooke's  intention;  we  have  no  doubt  whatever  that 
the  young  man  was  not  instructed  to  dispose  of  Cooke's  Point.  But  good 
St.  Abdon,  sir,  the  question  hath  to  do  with  authority,  not  with  instruction: 
I  submit  that  if  young  Mister  Cooke's  commission  lawfully  empowered  him 
to  dispose  of  the  property,  the  question  of  paternal  sanction  is  immaterial/' 

The  Governor  rubbed  his  nose  and  sighed.  "The  Court  agrees/' 

Sowter  then  obtained  further  concession  from  the  Court  that  if  in  the 
management  of  the  estate  Ebenezer  had  found  it  expedient  to  lease,  sell, 
or  grant  away  some  small  portion  of  it,  his  action  would  be  fully  authorized 
by  the  phrase  "all  matters  pertinent  thereto"— since,  after  all,  the  very  sot- 
weed  for  the  sale  of  which  the  plantation  existed  was  part  and  parcel  of  the 
estate.  And  having  won  this  point,  he  declared  that  what  applied  to  a  part 
applied  to  the  whole;  to  infer  some  arbitary  limitation  from  the  language 
of  the  commission  would  be  patently  absurd, 

"If  Mister  Eben  had  the  right  to  sell  one  leaf  o'  sot-weed,"  Sowter  con- 
cluded, "he  had  the  right  to  sell  the  whole  estate/' 

By  way  of  rebuttal,  Andrew  maintained  that  to  interpret  so  broadly  the 
phrase  "all  matters  pertinent  thereto"  was  in  effect  to  contradict  it,  for  if 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  771  ] 

the  attorney  disposed  of  the  whole  estate,  he  by  that  gesture  disposed  of 
his  power  of  attorney  as  well. 

" Which  in  sooth  he  did!"  laughed  Sowter.  "We  ne'er  disputed  that!" 

Nicholson  consulted  Burlingame  and  Sir  Thomas.  "I  greatly  fear/7  he 
then  declared,  "the  Court  must  find  for  Mister  Sowter  on  this  first  question. 
Tis  common  practice  for  an  overseer  with  power  of  attorney  to  deed  away 
portions  of  an  estate  to  indentured  servants,  for  example,  in  fulfillment  of 
their  bonds— 'twas  just  such  a  matter,  as  I  recall,  that  Mister  Spurdance  was 
litigating  with  Mister  Smith  in  the  Cambridge  Court.  And  albeit  'tis  the 
usual  custom  of  attorneys  to  consult  the  owners  ere  they  make  any  large 
transaction,  in  the  absence  of  any  stipulation  to  the  contrary  the  Court 
must  rule  that  Eben  Cooke  was  lawfully  empowered  to  dispose  o'  the 
whole  estate  as  he  saw  fit." 

This  was  a  hard  blow  for  Andrew;  Ebenezer  was  touched  to  observe  more 
distress  than  anger  in  the  look  his  father  gave  him. 

"As  to  the  second  question/*  Nicholson  proceeded  grimly,  "let  me  merely 
enquire  whether  there  is  any  difference  of  opinion.  Tis  thy  contention, 
is't  not,  Mister  Cooke,  that  the  boy  granted  away  his  legacy  unwittingly  to 
Mister  Smith?" 

"Aye/*  said  Andrew.  "Eben  himself  will  swear  to't,  as  will "  He 

hesitated*  loath  to  pronounce  Burlingame^  name.  "As  will  the  clerk  o'  this 
Court  and  this  unfortunate  young  lady  here,  whom  my  boy  was  coerced 
by  Mister  Smith  into  marrying.  Both  were  eyewitnesses  to  the  grant.  More- 
over, Your  Excellency  may  consult  the  records  of  the  Circuit  Court,  session 
of  September  last " 

"I  have  already/'  the  Governor  said.  "Mister  Burlingame  was  kind  enough 
to  prepare  a  copy  for  me.  Mister  Sowter,  is't  thy  intent  to  dispute  this 
question  of  fact,  or  do  ye  allow  that  the  grantor  was  unaware  or  the  nature 
of  his  grant?" 

"We  have  no  mind  to  dispute  that  fact,"  Sowter  replied.  "Howbeit " 

"Nay,  now,  spare  me  thy  howbeits  for  the  nonce,  sir.  To  proceed,  then: 
Ebenezer  Cooke  was  fully  within  his  rights  as  Andrew  Cooke's  attorney  to 
giant  away  Cooke's  Point  to  William  Smith,  but  'tis  agreed  by  all  parties 
that  he  did  so  unaware  that  it  was  his  own  estate  he  granted.  I  now  ask 
Ebenezer  Cooke  to  describe  in  full  the  circumstances  o'  the  grant,  and  then 
well  have  an  end  to  the  tawdiy  business." 

The  poet  released  Joan's  hand  long  enough  to  do  as  he  was  bid:  he 
reviewed  as  clearly  as  he  could  recall  them  the  details  of  his  journey  to 
Cambridge  with  Henry  Burlingame;  their  dispute  concerning  the  relation- 


•     [  772  I  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

ship  of  innocence  to  justice;  his  indignation  at  the  conduct  of  Judge  Ham- 
maker's  court;  his  intervention  in  the  case  of  Smith  v.  Spurdance  and  the 
several  stipulations  of  his  verdict  thereon. 

"'Twas  an  outrage  against  Justice  I  sought  innocently  to  rectify,"  he 
concluded.  "Howbeit,  when  my  innocence  was  stripped  from  me  I  saw  I 
had  not  rectified  but  perpetrated  injustice:  not  only  did  I  grant  what  was 
not  mine  to  grant— I  mean  morally,  not  legally— but  in  so  doing  I  ruined 
a  good  and  faithful  man,  Ben  Spurdance;  and  indirectly,  by  giving  this 
house  to  William  Smith  to  turn  into  a  den  of  viciousness,  I  ruined  many 
another  man  as  well,  for  which  God  forgive  me." 

"I  see,"  Nicholson  smiled  drily.  "And  may  the  Court  infer  that  your 
estimation  of  innocence  hath  been  revised  somewhat  in  consequence?" 

Though  he  knew  there  was  nothing  malicious  in  the  question,  Ebenezer 
could  not  return  the  smile.  "The  Court  may,"  he  answered  quietly,  and 
resumed  his  seat.  Seldom  had  he  felt  more  dispirited  about  himself  than 
now,  when,  with  many  of  his  perils  behind  him,  he  had  leisure  to  contem- 
plate the  destruction  wrought  by  his  innocence.  He  scarcely  took  notice 
of  the  fact  that  it  was  Joan  who  took  his  hand  this  time,  though  more  or 
less  apathetically;  he  stole  a  guilty  glance  at  his  sister,  whose  rueful  eyes  said 
plainly  that  the  gesture  had  not  escaped  her. 

Nicholson  next  requested  a  preliminary  statement  from  both  Andrew 
Cooke  and, Richard  Sowter  on  the  question  of  the  validity  of  the  grant. 

"My  contentions  are  three,  sir,"  Andrew  declared.  "I  hold  in  the  first 
place  that  Judge  Hammaker  had  no  authority  to  delegate  his  office  to  my 
son,  who  hath  no  reading  in  the  law,  and  thus  that  the  sentence  imposed  on 
Spurdance  was  unlawful;  second,  that  e'en  if  the  sentence  was  lawful,  the 
grant  was  not,  being  made  unknowingly;  and  third,  that  e'en  should  an 
innocent  grant  be  ruled  binding,  the  conditions  of  my  son's  were  not  ful- 
filled. That  is  to  say,  Smith  was  ordered  to  find  a  husband  for  the  girl 
Susan  Warren,  supposedly  his  daughter;  but  I  hold,  sir,  that  her  marriage 
to  my  son  is  null  and  void,  on  the  double  grounds  that  he  was  coerced 
into  wedding  her  and  that  her  name  is  not  Susan  Warren  but  Joan 
Toast.  The  stipulations  being  therefore  unsatisfied,  the  grant  must  be 
revoked." 

Impressed  as  he  was  by  the  persuasiveness  of  his  father's  case,  Ebenezer 
was  greatly  perturbed  by  this  last  contention.  "A  word,  Your  Excellency!" 
he  pleaded. 

"Not  now,"  said  Nicholson,  who  appeared  less  moved  by  Andrew's 
arguments  than  was  the  poet.  "The  floor  is  Mister  SowterV 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  773  ] 

Sowter  then  declared  his  intention  to  show  first,  by  legal  precedent,  that 
it  was  within  Judge  Hammaker's  rights,  under  special  circumstances,  to 
delegate  the  authority  of  the  Bench  in  effect,  since  in  fact  he  never 
relinquished  it  at  all:  what  he  had  done,  in  other  words,  was  grant  Ebenezer 
the  privilege  of  pronouncing  a  sentence  which  he  then  ratified  and  so  made 
lawful,  but  which  he  could  as  easily  have  overridden;  it  was  in  truth  no 
more  than  a  consultation  that  Hammaker  availed  himself  of,  as  a  judge  will 
often  consult  an  expert  and  disinterested  third  party  before  ruling  on  a 
difficult  civil  suit  (furthermore,  he  added  in  an  aside  to  Andrew,  it  must  be 
allowed  that  Ebenezer  -was  a  disinterested  party;  otherwise  the  grant  was 
made  knowingly  and  could  scarcely  be  challenged).  In  the  second  place,  he 
meant  to  demonstrate  both  by  reason  and  by  precedent  what  no  man 
familiar  with  torts  would  seriously  question:  that  a  lawful  contract  lawfully 
signed  is  binding,  it  being  the  responsibility  of  the  signatories  to  apprise 
themselves  of  its  terms.  Moreover,  it  would  be  a  mockery  of  justice  to  hold 
that  a  breach  of  contract  committed  by  Ben  Spurdance  is  more  reprehensible 
than  the  same  breach  committed  by  Messrs.  Cooke  and  son;  if  in  the 
Circuit  Court's  opinion  William  Smith  was  due  the  whole  of  Maiden  (less 
one  and  a  half  acres)  in  redress  of  his  grievances,  then  surely  it  was  no  less 
his  due  for  the  fact  that  'Squire  Cooke  and  not  poor  Spurdance  happened 
to  own  it— Spurdance  too,  the  Court  was  to  remember,  had  power  of 
attorney,  and  was  thus  acting  in  Andrew's  behalf  when  he  deprived  the 
cooper  of  his  just  reward.  As  for  this  feeble  casuistry  regarding  the  mar- 
riage  

"IF  t  please  Your  Excellency/7  Budingame  interrupted  at  this  point  "I 
am  dry  of  ink/'  He  showed  Nicolson  the  paper  on  which  he  had  been 
transcribing  testimony.  "See  there,  how  I  was  obliged  to  leave  Mister 
Sowter's  period  half-writ?  I  beg  Your  Excellency's  leave  to  forage  for  another 
pot  of  ink  and  a  better  quill  as  well" 

At  first  the  Governor's  expression  was  as  impatient  as  were  Sowter's  and 
Andrew  Cooke's,  but  something  in  Burlingame's  face— which  Ebenezer  too 
remarked,  but  Sowter  was  prevented  by  his  position  from  observing— led 
him  to  examine  the  page  of  testimony. 

"Ah,  well,  'tis  a  bother,  Henry,  but  there's  no  help  for't— besides,  I  daresay 
I'm  not  the  only  man  here  that  hath  been  tendered  a  subpoena  by  Dame 
Nature."  He  rapped  the  table-edge  and  stood  up.  "This  Court  stands  in 
recess  for  half  an  hour  or  thereabouts.  Leave  the  room  as  ye  please,  but 
not  the  house/' 


2i :    THE  POET  EARNS  HIS  ESTATE 


AS  SOON  AS  THE  COURT  WAS  RECESSED  RICHARD  SOWTER  AND  WILLIAM 

Smith  retired  to  another  room,  whereupon  Burlingame,  so  far  from  going  in 
search  of  ink,  admitted  cheerfully  that  his  pot  was  half  full,  but  dispatched 
the  militiaman  to  find  more  for  appearance's  sake. 

*  Why  is't  ye  tricked  us?"  Andrew  demanded.  "I  strenuously  object!" 

Burlingame  shrugged.  "To  save  Anna's  dowry/'  he  said  mischievously. 
"I'd  not  want  to  lose  my  share  of  Cooke's  Point" 

"Nay,  Henry,"  Anna  scolded.  "Go  to!" 

"I'll  have  somewhat  to  say  to  you  anon,  young  lady,"  Andrew  threatened. 
"Just  now — " 

"Just  now  we've  a  crisis  on  our  hands,  sir,"  Governor  Nicholson  broke  in, 
"and  not  much  time  to  make  our  plans,  so  prithee  contain  thy  spleen  till 
another  time." 

"A  crisis?  Nonsense!  You  heard  my  arguments!" 

"Aye,  and  I  heard  Sowter's  rebuttal,  that  leaves  ye  not  a  pot  to  piss  in. 
Which  vulgar  trope  reminds  me — "  He  bowed  to  the  ladies  and  excused 
himself. 

"Nay,  sir,"  urged  Burlingame.  "'Tis  most  important  you  hear  this  too" 

"Ah,  ah — "  Nicholson  waggled  an  admonitory  finger.  "Twere  most 
unethical,  sir:  I  remind  ye  we  have  declared  ourselves  a  court  o'  law,  and  'tis 
popularly  believed  a  judge  should  be  impartial." 

"As  should  a  clerk,"  Andrew  added  sternly.  Til  win  my  case  without  thy 
assistance,  Mister  Burlingame." 

"A  fart  for  thy  case!"  cried  Henry.  "I  care  no  more  who  owns  this  piece  of 
dirt  than  doth  Ebenezer,  or  thy  daughter!  Tis  the  Province  I'm  concerned 
with." 

"Eh?"  The  Governor  paused  at  the  door.  "How's  that,  Henry?" 
Burlingame  gathered  all  the  men  around  the  baize  table  for  a  conference; 
so  sincere  was  his  concern  that  even  Ebenezer  reluctantly  left  the  couch, 
where  Joan  remained  still  cold  to  his  petitions  for  her  mercy,  and  joined 
them. 

"Tis.  about  that  portion  of  the  Assembly  Journal,"  Burlingame 
announced.  "All  of  us  here  save  you,  Mister  Cooke,  are  aware  of  its  nature 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  775  ] 

and  importance—I  shall  ask  you  merely  to  accept  His  Excellency's  word 
for't  that  without  this  document  of  Bill  Smith's  we  may  well  lose  a  much 
graver  case  than  this  one,  and  belike  the  entire  Province  o'  Maryland  into 
the  bargain!  With  the  Journal  complete  we  may  yet  not  get  our  man,  but 
at  least  we  can  prosecute." 

'That  is  correct,  sir,"  Nicholson  assured  Andrew.  "But  what  oft,  Henry?" 

Burlingame  smiled.  "We've  heard  Mister  Cooke's  case  and  Mister 
Sowter's,  sir,  and  you  know  as  well  as  I  that  as  they  stand,  Mister  Cooke 
hath  lost  every  point." 

Andrew  protested  vigorously,  even  violently,  against  this  opinion,  and 
Nicholson  reminded  Burlingame  of  the  unethicality  of  asking  a  judge  to 
commit  himself  before  the  pleadings  were  complete.  But  his  smile  suggested, 
to  Ebenezer  at  least,  that  Andrew's  case  was  perhaps  by  no  means  so 
strong  as  the  poet  had  thought. 

"Methinks  I  should  tell  you  now,  sir,"  Ebenezer  said  to  his  father,  "I 
have  no  intentions  of  disavowing  my  marriage,  what  e'er  the  circumstances 

oft.  Joan's  wretched  state  is  my  responsibility "  Here  he  waved  away 

McEvoy's  protests,  "Nay,  John,  'tis  mine,  and  I'd  not  abandon  her  again 
for  a  thousand  Maidens." 

In  vain  did  his  father  point  out  that  she  was  a  diseased  and  dying  prosti- 
tute; in  vain  he  turned  from  wrath  to  reasonableness  to  supplication,  and 
returned  to  wrath.  Ebenezer  was  adamant. 

"Out  on't,  then!"  his  father  cried  at  last,  "Wed  the  whore  a  second  time 
when  our  case  is  won,  and  be  damned  t'ye!  All  I  beg  is  your  leave  to  save 
Maiden  for  ye!" 

Now  Ebenezer  found  himself  caught  between  conflicting  responsibilities 
and  could  see  no  way  to  reconcile  them.  It  was  a  painful  moment  until 
Burlingame  came  to  his  rescue,  as  he  had  so  often  in  the  past. 

44  Tis  all  beside  the  point  in  any  case,  gentlemen,"  Henry  said.  "If  Sowter 
hath  a  brain  in  his  thieving  head— and  you  may  wager  he  hath— he'll  agree 
that  the  marriage  is  false  (if  you'll  pardon  me,  Eben,  'tis  as  well  your  father 
knew  the  match  hath  ne'er  been  consummated).  But  the  stipulation  that 
required  it  was  false  for  the  same  reason:  Joan  Toast  isn't  Susan  Warren,  and 
Susan  Warren  isn't  Bill  Smith's  daughter,  and  there's  an  end  on't!  As  for  the 
other  arguments,  they  simply  hold  no  water;  'twill  be  light  work  for  Sowter 
to  rest  his  case  on  precedents.  Do  you  agree,  Tom?  Thou'rt  no  judge,  now." 

Sir  Thomas  Lawrence  admitted  that  Andrew's  case  struck  him  as 
vulnerable  and  Sowter's  relatively  strong,  but  added  that  he  thought  Mister 
Cooke  had  overlooked  the  best  line  of  attack.  "If  I  were  thy  counsel,"  he 


[776]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

told  Andrew,  "I'd  appeal  the  extremity  of  the  Circuit  Court's  ruling,  not  its 
legality.  Admit  that  Spurdance  was  in  the  wrong,  but  plead  for  the  damages 
to  be  lightened— say,  to  the  terms  of  Smith's  original  indenture  plus  costs 
and  a  sop  for's  trouble." 

Burlingame  shook  his  head.  "You  don't  see  the  problem,  Tom.  We  don't 
want  Sowter  to  win,  but  we  dare  not  let  him  lose!" 

"And  why  not,  pray?"  demanded  Nicholson. 

"For  the  best  of  reasons,  sir,"  Burlingame  replied  calmly.  "You  and  I 
and  Sir  Thomas  know  very  well  that  this  court  hath  no  more  law  in't  than  a 
bawdyhouse." 

Ebenezer  expressed  his  astonishment,  and  Andrew  openly  charged 
Burlingame  with  prevarication;  but  Sir  Thomas  blushed,  and  Governor 
Nicholson  scowled  uncomfortably. 

"Ah,  well  now,  Henry!"  He  glanced  angrily  about  the  room.  "I'll  own  'tis 
not  the  sort  o'  thing  a  governor  doth  every  Tuesday— but  'tis  done,  dammee! 
If  I  choose  to  find  for  Smith  I'll  find  for  Smith,  and  if  for  Cooke  then 
I'll  find  for  Cooke,  arguments  and  precedents  be  damned!  I  doubt  our  friend 
Sowter  will  appeal  to  the  Lords  Commissioners!" 

"I'm  sure  he  won't/'  Henry  agreed.  "But  when  Judge  Hammaker  learns 
that  you  sat  yourself  down  in  this  parlor  one  evening  and  reversed  the  ruling 
of  his  Circuit  Court,  you  may  rest  on't  he'll  make  a  noise  in  London!  And 
wouldn't  Andros  love  the  sound  oft!" 

"No  more!"  growled  Nicholson.  "The  point  is  clear  enough."  He  would 
not  commit  himself  further,  but  his  tone  bade  no  good  for  Andrew's 
prospects. 

"Well,  God's  blood!"  that  gentleman  exclaimed.  "I'd  have  ye  recall,  sire, 
that  my  voice  is  as  loud  as  Hammaker's  with  the  Lords  Commissioners!  If 
this  court  hath  no  jurisdiction,  ye'll  .be  no  better  off  for  ruling  against  me!" 

"Quite  so,"  Burlingame  agreed  with  a  smile,  "now  that  I've  shown  ye  the 
way.  Besides,  we  want  the  rest  of  the  Privie  Journall  as  well  as  the  estate,  if 
not  more  so.  Sowter  knows  his  client's  position  is  a  shaky  one— Smith's 
attempt  to  run  away  shows  that— but  he  also  knows  there's  some  connection 
'twixt  me  and  the  Cookes.  He's  not  sure  of  his  ground,  particularly  with 
regard  to  our  vice  and  sedition  charges,  and  methinks  his  only  motive  in 
defending  Smith's  claim  is  to  give  his  man  more  bargaining  power  when  the 
time  comes  to  bargain," 

Nicholson  fumed  and  worried  his  stick.  "Ye  might  have  mentioned  this 
ere  we  set  up  court,  you  know!" 

"'Twere  premature,"  Burlingame  declared.  "We  have  got  rid  of  the 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  777  ] 

Colonel  already,  and  'twas  quite  within  your  rights  to  seize  Cooke's  Point  for 
the  nonce— well  done,  in  fact/' 

"Thou'rt  too  gracious!" 

"But  you  daren't  hold  the  property  for  long  on  such  a  pretext,  and  you 
daren't  release  it  by  court  order  to  either  party.  Tis  hence  I  warned  you  to 
recess." 

Nicholson  wiped  his  brow.  "Devil  take  all  barristers  and  law-books!  What 
a  province  I  could  have  me  without  'em!  What  do  we  do  now,  Henry?" 

Burlingame  shrugged.  "What  do  all  good  barristers  do  when  they  have  no 
case,  sir?  We  settle  out  o'  court!" 

"Stay!"  Ebenezer  warned.  "Here  they  are." 

Richard  Sowter  and  William  Smith  came  in  from  the  next  room.  The 
cooper  did  indeed  look  unsure  of  his  ground,  but  his  counsel  was  as  breezy 
as  ever. 

"Did  ye  scare  up  some  ink,  Mister  Clerk?  Splendid!  By  St.  Ludwig,  'twere 
a  pity  such  eloquence  as  Mister  Cooke's  went  unrecorded!" 

The  party  around  the  table  dispersed  guiltily.  Observing  with  some 
surprise  that  Anna  had  moved  to  the  couch  and  was  deep  in  conversation 
with  Joan,  Ebenezer  returned  with  his  father  to  his  earlier  place.  So  dispirited 
was  Andrew  by  the  progress  of  events  that  he  offered  no  resistance  when  his 
son  took  his  arm  and  directed  him  gently  to  a  seat. 

"By'r  leave,  Your  Excellency/'  Sowter  asked,  "may  I  proceed  with  my 
statement?" 

Burlingame,  Ebenezer  noticed,  had  been  conferring  in  whispers  with  the 
Governor  and  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence.  Now  he  sat  back  and  winked  at 
Ebenezer  as  if  there  were  nothing  at  all  to  be  concerned  about! 

"Ye  may  not/'  Nicholson  grumbled. 

Sowter's  face  clouded,  "Your  Excellency?" 

"The  Court  will  rule  on  thy  client's  claim  some  other  time,"  the  Governor 
said.  "Just  now  I'm  fetching  the  twain  of  ye  to  Anne  Arundel  jail.  The 
charges  are  conspiracy,  sedition,  and  high  treason,  and  after  what  Tim 
Mitchell  here  hath  told  me,  I  quite  expect  to  see  ye  hanged  ere  the  year  is 
out!" 

The  surprise  brought  even  the  sullen  cooper  to  his  feet.  "Tim  Mitchell!" 

"Aye,  gentlemen."  Burlingame  smiled.  "Captain  Billy's  pride  and  pleasure, 
till  his  real  son  came  along/'  His  hands  were  busy  as  he  spoke,  and  his 
appearance  changed  magically.  Off  came  the  powdered  periwig,  to  be 
replaced  by  a  short  black  hairpiece;  from  his  mouth  he  removed  a  curious 
device  which,  it  turned  out,  had  held  three  artificial  teeth  in  position.  Most 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

uncannily  of  all,  he  seemed  able  to  alter  at  will  the  set  of  his  facial  muscles: 
the  curve  of  his  cheeks  and  the  flare  of  his  nose  changed  shape  before  their 
eyes;  his  habitually  furrowed  brow  grew  smooth,  but  crow's-feet  appeared 
where  before  there  were  none.  Finally,  his  voice  deepened  and  coarsened;  he 
drew  in  upon  himself  so  as  to  seem  at  least  two  inches  shorter;  his  eyes  took 
on  a  craftier  cast— Nicholas  Lowe,  in  a  few  miraculous  seconds,  had  become 
Timothy  Mitchell. 

"  'Sbody!"  exclaimed  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  and  the  Governor  himself 
—though  one  supposed  he  must  have  witnessed  such  transformations  of 
his  trusted  agent  before— was  moved  to  shake  his  head. 

"Tis  a  page  of  Ovid!"  Ebenezer  marveled.  The  others  made  similar 
expressions  of  their  awe— except  Smith  and  Sowter,  who  were  dumb  struck. 

"Now,  Mister  Smith,"  Burlingame  said  grimly,  "methinks  ye  know  what 
straits  thou'rt  in  if  I  testify  against  ye— if  ye  do  not,  I  give  ye  leave  to 
consult  Mister  Sowter,  that  will  keep  ye  company  in  jail  for's  misdemeanors." 

The  cooper  seemed  ready  to  do  violence,  but  Sowter  waved  his  hand 
resignedly. 

"Ye  quite  agree  we've  dagged  ye?  Splendid!  Then  attend  me  closely: 
'tis  my  intention  to  expose  for  prosecution  the  entire  traffic  in  opium  and 
whores,  the  which  hath  paid  for  all  of  John  Coode's  mischief  and  haply 
Baltimore's  as  well.  Whoe'er  hath  had  a  finger  in't"— he  smiled  at  Andrew— 
"shall  be  brought  to  account,  regardless  of  his  station " 

"St.  Louis's  wig,  man!"  Sowter  complained.  "Jail  us  and  have  done  with't, 
but  spare  us  this  pious  gloating!" 

"Patience,  Dick."  Henry  raised  his  finger.  "  Tis  but  my  preamble  to  a 
bargain.  On  the  strength  of  my  deposition  His  Excellency  hath  instructed 
Sir  Thomas  to  proceed  against  Coode,  Bill  Mitchell,  and  every  traitor  of  a 
whoremaster  in  his  company — with  the  possible  exception  of  yourselves." 

Smith's  eyes  narrowed,  and  Sowter's  expression  became  calculating  as 
Burlingame  offered  to  waive  the  charges  against  them  in  return  for  the 
cooper's  portion  of  the  Privie  Journall,  on  whose  verso  was  believed  to  be 
Coode's  record  of  confiscations  and  prosecutions  during  his  brief  tenure  of 
office.  The  cooper  agreed  at  once  to  the  exchange,  but  Sowter  restrained  him. 

"Only  think  of  the  consequences,  Bill!"  he  warned.  "D'ye  think  we'll 
live  out  the  month  when  John  Coode  learns  ye've  let  go  the  papers?  Besides, 
methinks  His  Excellency  must  set  great  store  by  'em  to  make  us  such  an 
offer;  and  What  mil  fetch  eleven  pence,  don't  ye  know,  witt  as  lightly  fetch 
a  shilling  .  .  ." 

"Take  'em  away,  Sergeant,"  snapped  Nicholson.  "I'm  sony  to  disappoint 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  779  ] 

ye,  Henry,  but  I'll  not  dicker  farther  with  traitors  just  to  get  your 
grandfather's  diary." 

"Stay!"  Sowter  cried  at  once.  "We'll  fetch  ye  the  wretched  papers!  Only 
give  us  thy  pledge  in  writing  .  .  ." 

Nicholson  shook  his  head.  "I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  that/' 

"Welladay!  Then  this  much,  at  least,  sir:  we'll  have  no  profit  in  our 
bargain  if  John  Coode  murthers  us;  grant  us  immediate  safe  conduct  to 
Virginia,  and  ye  may  have  the  papers." 

Again  Burlingame  conferred  in  whispers  with  the  Governor  and  Sir 
Thomas.  Ebenezer  gripped  his  father's  shoulder. 

"His  Excellency  advises  me  to  authorize  safe  exit  for  ye,"  Henry  declared, 
"but  not  as  a  term  of  our  first  agreement.  We'll  fetch  ye  out  o'  Maryland  in 
the  morning  if  Smith  relinquishes  all  claim  to  this  estate." 

"God  bless  ye,  sir!"  Andrew  cried. 

*  'Sheartl"  protested  Sowter.  "Ye'd  bleed  us  dry!" 

Nicholson  grinned.  "And  'twill  not  be  Virginia  we  fetch  ye  to,  either,  but 
Pennsylvania.  Tve  enemies  enough  in  Virginia." 

"What  liars  they  are  that  call  ye  Papist!"  William  Smith  exclaimed. 
"Thou'rt  not  even  a  proper  Gentile!" 

Sowter  sighed.  "We've  no  choice.  Bill.  Fetch  the  papers,  and  I'll  draw  up 
a  conveyance," 

The  rest  of  the  company  cheered  the  news:  Anna  and  Ebenezer  embraced 
each  other  with  great  relief  j  Andrew  apologized  stiffly  to  Burlingame  and 
commended  him  for  his  strategy,  as  did  Nicholson,  Sir  Thomas,  and  John 
McEvoy;  Roxanne  and  Henrietta  looked  on  approvingly.  Only  Joan  Toast 
remained  apathetic,  and  the  sight  of  her  blighted  Ebenezer's  joy. 

The  cooper  left  the  room,  under  guard,  and  returned  with  a  roll  of  yellowed 
papers,  which  Burlingame  received  eagerly.  He  and  Sir  Thomas  made  a 
cursory  inspection  of  the  verso  and  pronounced  it  sufficient  evidence,  when 
combined  with  the  1691  Assembly  Journal,  to  institute  proceedings  against 
Coode  and  his  associates,  Then,  while  Sowter,  Sir  Thomas,  and  the  Governor 
discussed  the  details  of  releasing  Maiden  and  ferrying  the  two  men  up  the 
Bay  to  Pennsylvania,  Burlingame  took  Ebenezer  aside. 

"D'ye  recall  the  story  I  told  ye  on  our  way  to  Plymouth?"  he  asked 
excitedly,  "How  Sir  Henry  and  Captain  John  were  captured  by  Powhatan?" 

Ebenezer  smiled.  "They  struck  some  lewd  bargain  over  the  King's 
daughter,  as  I  recall,  but  we  ne'er  learned  the  outcome  oft  Is  that  the  rest 
of  the  tale?" 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"Aye,  methinks  our  story  is  complete.  Let's  read  it  while  Tom  and  the 
Governor  attend  those  rascals." 

And  then  and  there,  despite  the  general  excitement  in  the  room,  they 
read  together  the  second  and  final  portion  of  Sir  Henry  Burlingame's 
Privie  Journall,  which  began  (where  the  first  had  left  off)  with  the  author 
and  Captain  John  Smith  incarcerated  in  the  Emperor  Powhatan's  village 
waiting  for  dawn,  at  which  time  the  Captain  was  pledged  to  gamble  their 
lives  against  his  ability  to  do  what  the  ablest  young  men  of  the  town  had 
found  impossible:  relieve  Pocahontas  of  her  maidenhood. 

Two  burlie  Guards  were  plac'd  over  us,  had  written  Sir  Henry,  and  commis- 
sion'd  to  provide  our  everie  wish,  and  to  slay  u$  shd  we  offer  to  escape.  My  Cap- 
tain then  commend d  to  regale  me  with  accounts,  endlesse  &  lubricious,  of  divers 
maidens  in  exotick  lands,  that  he  had  deftowr'd,  till  that  I  grewe  so  wearie,  I  did 
feign  sleep.  But  watch' d  him  privilie,  the  night  througft. 

Neare  midnigfit,  believing  me  fast  asleep,  my  Captain  did  ryse  up  from  his  bed 
(like  mine,  a  filthie  pallet  upon  the  grownd),  and  summon' d  one  of  our  Guards, 
Thereupon  ensu'd  a  whisper' d  colloquie,  yet  not  so  hush'd  withal,  but  I  heard  the 
substance  of  it.  Ever  &  anon  he  glanc'd  to  see,  Whether  I  was  asleep?  And  to  all 
that  were  naught  the  wiser,  so  I  was.  But  I  kept  one  eye  still  a-squint,  and  both 
eares  wide,  and  follow' d  there  conversation  with  passing  ease.  Smith  declar'd,  He 
was  hungrie,  the  w°A  surpriz'd  me  not  a  little,  seeing  he  had  eate  enough  at  the 
Emperours  feest,  to  preserve  the  whole  of  Jamestowne  through  the  Winter.  He 
demanded  to  be  brought  food  at  once.  The  Salvage  was  loath  to  bestir  him  selfe, 
so  it  seem'd  to  me,  the  moreso  when  my  Captain  commenced  to  tell  what  dishes 
he  crav'd;  to  witt:  one  egg-plant  (that  frute,  that  is  caU'd  by  some,  Aubergine) 
with  corne-floure  wherein  to  cooke  it,  &  water  wherewith  to  drinke  it  downe  .  ,  . 

"An  egg-plantl"  Burlingame  murmured. 

He  did  maintaine,  that  onlie  thus  did  white  men  prepare  the  frute  of  the  egg- 
plant. Wch  I  knewe  for  a  lye. 

The  Salvage  did  pleade  the  houre  of  night  and  the  season  of  yeere,  but  upon 
my  Captains  pressing  the  matter  (besides  bribing  him  with  some  bawble  from 
his  wicked  pockett),  he  at  last  consented  to  steale  an  egg-plant  and  fioure  from 
the  common  store  neare  the  Emperours  howse.  Then  departing,  he  was  absent 
for  some  while,  during  woh  my  Captain  pac'd  about  the  hutt,  as  might  a  man, 
whose  wife  was  in  travaile,  not  forgetting  to  certain  him  selfe,  now  &  againe,  that 
my  sleep  was  sound  &  undisturb'd, 

Whenas  the  Salvage  did  returne,  with  2  drfd  egg-plants  &  a  dishful  of  fioure, 
not  to  mention  an  earthen  jugg  of  water,  my  Captain  rewarded  him  with  a  second 
trinkett,  and  ask'd  him  to  remove  him  selfe  from  the  hutt,  if  it  pleas' d  him,  and 
sett  outside,  for  that  white  men  (as  he  claim'd)  never  cook'd  there  food,  but 
privilie.  The  Salvage  did  as  he  was  bid,  eager  to  contemplate  his  treasures,  and 
left  alone,  my  Captain  straightway  set  to  work  upon  the  egg-plant,  in  the 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  781  ] 

strangest  manner  I  ever  did  behold.  Forsooth,  I  was  that  amaz'd,  that  even  some 
weeks  thereafter,  here  in  Jamestowne,  what  time  I  set  to  recording  this  narrative 
in  my  Journall-booke,  it  was  no  light  matter  to  realize  it  was  true.  For  had  I  not 
observ'd  it  my  owne  selfe,  I  had  never  believ'd  it  to  be  aught  but  the  lewd  con- 
struction of  some  dissolute  fancie.  Endlesse  indeed,  and  beyond  the  ken  of  sober 
&  continent  men,  are  the  practices  and  fowle  receipts  of  those  lustfull  persons, 
the  votaries  of  the  flesh,  that  still  sett  Venus  &  Bacchus  over  chast  Minerva,  and 
studie  with  scholars  zeal  all  the  tricks  and  dark  refynements  of  camallitie!  I  blush 
to  committ  the  thing  to  paper,  even  to  these  the  privie  pages  of  my  JournalL  Wc* 
it  is  my  vow,  that  no  man  shall  lay  eyes  upon,  while  that  I  live. 

"I  say!"  Burlingame  exclaimed.  "The  rest  of  the  page  is  gone,  and  part 
of  the  nextl  D'ye  grasp  what  it  is  we  have  here,  Eben?" 

"You  mean  the  matter  of  the  Sacred  Egg-plant,  that  the  Tayac  Chicamec 
spoke  of?  Tis  not  impossible  there's  some  connection  .  .  ." 

"I  know  there  isl  FChrist,  what  this  could  mean!" 

They  read  on,  Burlingame  with  an  expression  of  voracious,  almost  painful 
eagerness,  and  Ebenezer  with  the  first  stirrings  of  a  strange  uneasiness. 

For  this  reason,  the  narrative  resumed  after  the  break,  it  was  to  my  grand 
chagrinn,  that  coming  to  my  senses  some  houres  later,  I  discovered  I  had  assumed 
in  fact,  that  state  w°h  theretofore  I  had  feign'd;  to  witt:  a  sownd  &  recklesse 
sleep  .  .  . 

"God  damn  him!"  Henry  cried. 

My  repose  was  broken  by  the  Salvage  Guard  &  Keeper,  and  starting  up,  I 
fownd  the  Sunne  dreadie  risen.  From  without  our  hutt  there  came  to  my  eares, 
the  whooping  &  hollowing  of  many  Salvages,  and  I  guess'd,  they  were  assembVd 
for  my  Captains  lustie  tryall  of  there  Princesse.  My  Captain,  when  I  look'd  at 
him,  was  futtie  clotWd,  and  no  signs  of  the  Aubergine  or  other  things  being  ap- 
parent, I  wonder' d  whether  the  scene  I  had  witness1 d  in  the  night  just  past,  was  a 
mere  fantastick  dreemf  such  as  men  are  wont  to  suffer,  when  there  death  is  neare 
to  hand  *  ,  . 

"Then  he  did  witness  it,"  Ebenezer  offered,  "whatever  it  was." 
"But  the  page  is  gone!" 

It  is  true,  the  Journall  went  on,  that  when  we  left  the  hutt,  under  the  eye  of 
our  Salvage  Guards,  and  were  led  to  the  publick  square,  my  Captain  shew'd  some 
hardshipp  in  walking,  as  if  loath  to  keep  his  leggs  together,  but  this  deficiencie 
c*  as  well  be  attributed  to  feare  ( w°*  it  is  well  known,  can  loose  a  mans  hold  upon 
his  reins),  as  to  any  strange  behaviour  of  the  evening  past.  And  this  former  seem'd 
the  more  likdie,  for  that  the  scene  before  us  was  aught  but  a  consoling  one. 

Round  about  the  court-yard,  in  a  circle,  stood  the  people  of  the  towne, 
hottowing  &  howling  in  a  fearsome  manner.  Within  the  large  circle  thus  form'd 


[  782  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

was  a  smaller,  made  up  of  tenne  or  a  dozen  of  the  Emperours  Lieutenants.  These 
-were  greate  brawnie  Salvages,  bedeck'd  in  feathers  and  paynted  most  grew- 
somelie,  that  donn'd  in  naught  save  these  adornments,  did  leap  and  daunce 
about,  issuing  feerce  screames,  and  brandishing  there  Tomahawkes.  In  the  center 
of  this  smalle  ring  sat  the  Emperour  Powhatan,  rays' d  above  the  crowd  on  a  loftie 
chaire,  and  before  him,  upon  a  manner  of  altar  stone,  lay  Pocahontas,  stript  & 
trust  with  thongs  of  hyde  for  the  heethenish  rites.  Yet  maugre  the  rudenesse  of 
her  position,  the  Princesse  seem'd  not  a  whit  alarm* d,  but  wore  an  huge  smyle 
upon  her  face.  Whereat  I  guess9 d,  that  this  vile  manner  of  presenting  maidens  for 
bethrothal  must  be  in  common  use  among  the  Salvage  nations,  to  such  extent 
that,  Habit  being  master  of  us  all,  they  had  got  even  to  relish  it,  in  there  pagan 
sinfullnesse.  Wcl1  notwithstanding,  I  was  fill'd  with  trepidation,  the  more  for  that, 
marking  the  considerable  manlinesse  of  those  Salvages,  that  sprang  about  att 
nakedlie,  and  recalling  the  modest  endowment  of  my  Captain  (that  for  all  his 
boasting,  I  had  seen  privilie  to  be  but  passing  well  equipt  for  Venereal  exercise), 
I  sawe  no  hope  of  his  making  good  where  they  had  faiVd.  Forsooth,  had  I  been 
in  his  place,  I  SM  not  have  been  able  to  summon  the  most  tryfting  manlinesse,  for 
knowing  those  evill  Tomahawkes  stood  readie  to  breake  my  head  at  the  first  sign 
of  deficiencie. 

Directly  they  spy'd  us,  all  the  Salvages  redoubled  there  commotion.  The  folk  in 
the  greate  circle  showted  and  clapt  hands,  the  Lieutenant-Salvages  leapt  and 
hopt,  even  Pocahontas  contriv'd  to  joggle  about  on  her  pedestatt.  Wch  move- 
ments, considering  the  manner  wherein  she  was  trust  and  tether' d7  shewed  un- 
common suppleness  of  limb,  and  readiness  for  whatever  might  ensue. 

We  were  fetch 'd  into  the  small  circle  and  stationed  before  the  altar  of  Venus 
(to  look  whereon  brought  the  blush  to. my  cheeks),  whereupon  the  Salvages  lafd 
hands  upon  my  Captain,  and  with  one  jerk  brought  his  breeches  low.  From  where 
I  stood,  woyt  chanc'd  to  be  behind  him,  the  sight  was  unprepossessing  enough,  but 
the  Salvages  before  all  suddenlie  put  by  there  clamour.  The  Emperour  shaded 
his  eyes  from  the  morning  Sunne,  the  better  to  behold  him,  and  Pocahontas, 
maugre  her  bonds  (wch  netted  her  as  fast  as  those,  that  Vulcan  fashion9 d  for  his 
faithless  spouse),  this  Pocahontas,  I  say,  came  neare  to  breaking  her  necke  with 
looking,  and  the  unchast  smyle,  that  erst  had  play'd  about  her  mowth,  now  van- 
ish'd  altogether. 

My  Captain  then  turning  half  around  to  see,  Whether  I  was  at  hand?  I  at  last 
beheld  the  cause  of  all  this  wonder,  and  as  well  the  effect  of  all  his  magick  of  the 
night  past — the  w°h  to  relate,  must  fetch  me  beyond  all  bownds  of  taste  &  de- 
cencie,  but  to  withhold,  must  betray  the  Truth  and  leave  what  followed  veiVd  in 
mystery.  To  have  done  then,  my  Captains  yard  stood  full  erect,  and  what  er$t  had 
been  more  cause  for  pity  than  for  astonishment,  was  now  in  verie  sooth  a  fright- 
full  engine:  such  was  the  virtue  of  his  devilish  brewe,  that  when  now  his  codd 
stood  readie  for  the  carnall  tilt,  he  rear'd  his  bulk  not  an  inch  below  eleven,  and 
well-nigh  three  in  diameter — a  weapon  of  the  Gods!  Add  to  w°h,  it  was  all  a  fyrie 
hue,  gave  o/f  a  scent  of  clove  &  vanilla,  and  appeared  as  stout  'as  that  stone 
whereon  its  victim  lay.  A  mightie  sownd  went  up  from  the  populace;  the  Lieu- 
tenants, that  had  doubtlesse  been  the  Princesses  former  suitors,  dropt  to  there 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  783  ] 

knees  as  in  prayer;  the  Emperour  started  up  in  his  high  seate,  dismay1 d  by  the 
fate  about  to  befall  his  daughter;  and  as  for  that  same  Pocahontas,  she  did 
swoone  dead  away. 

Straight  leapt  my  Captain  to  his  work,  whereof  I  can  bring  myself  to  scry 
naught  save  this:  Mercifull,  mercifull,  the  Providence,  that  kept  the  heethen 
maid  aswoont  while  that  my  Captain  did  what  none  had  done  before!  And  so  in- 
ordinatelie  withal,  that  anon  the  Emperour  beggrd  for  an  end  to  the  tryall,  lest 
his  daughter  depart  from  this  life.  He  declared  my  Captain  victorious,  rescinded 
the  decree  of  death  hanging  over  us,  dispersed  the  companie,  and  had  Pocahontas 
removed  to  his  howse,  -where  for  three  days  thereafter  she  hung  in  the  balance 
twixt  life  &  death.  A  banquet  was  then  prepard  for  us,  whereat  Powhatan 
expressed  his  intent  to  marrie  his  daughter  to  my  Captain,  inasmuch  as  no  Salvage 
in  his  trybe  e*  match  his  ririlitie*  My  Captain  declyn'd,  whereupon  the  Emperour 
-wax'd  wroth,  and  w*  have  returned  us  to  our  hutt,  had  not  my  Captain  offered  to 
instruct  him  in  that  mysterie,  whereby  he  had  so  increased  him  selfe.  This  more 
than  satisfy" d  the  Emperour,  that  SM  have  been  long  past  such  vanitie,  and  it  was 
on  the  best  of  terms,  that  we  $et  out  at  last  for  Jamestowne.  With  a  troup  of 
Salvages  to  assist  us  by  the  way. 

Throughout  the  journie,  as  one  might  guess,  my  Captain  bragg'd  and  strutted 
handsomelie.  1  was  oblig'd  to  him  for  life,  he  declafd,  for  that  his  deed  had  pre- 
serv'd  the  twain  of  u$;  and  he  offer* d  to  murther  me,  in  some  dark  and  dastard 
wise,  if  ever  I  noys'd  about  in  Jamestowne  the  manner  of  our  salvation.  I  c*  scarce 
protest*  inasmuch  he  had  in  sooth  preserv'd  me,  but  it  was  bitter  frute  to  eate,  for 
that  I  must  suhmitt  to  his  browbeating  and  braggadocio  without  compleynt.  In 
brief e,  I  was  to  feign  I  had  been  detained  with  Opecancanough,  and  my  Captain 
alone  led  in  unto  the  Emperour.  Moreover,  he  made  so  bold  as  to  shew  me  a  writ- 
ten account  of  his  sdvatipn  by  Pocahontas,  the  w°ft  he  meant  to  include  in  his 
lying  Historic;  this  version  made  no  mention  whatever  of  his  scurrilous  deftowr- 
ing  of  the  Princem,  but  merelie  implyfdf  she  was  overcome  by  his  manlie  bearing 
&  comelie  fate!  It  was  this  farce  and  travestie,  then,  wherein  I  was  obligd  to 
feign  belief,  and  w**  hath  mov'd  me,  in  hopes  of  pacifying  my  anguish'd  con- 
science, to  committ  this  true  accounting  to  my  Journall-booke.  Whereon,  I  pray 
God,  my  Captain  will  never  lay  his  lecherous  eyes! 

Here  ended  Sir  Henry's  Privie  Journall  except  for  one  final  entry,  dated 
several  weeks  after  his  return  to  Jamestown  and  only  a  few  months  prior 
to  his  conscription  for  the  fateful  voyage  up  the  Chesapeake: 

March,  1608:  Pocahontas,  the  Emperours  daughter,  having  at  long  last  re- 
gayrfd  full  possession  of  her  health,  is  ever  at  the  gates  of  the  towne,  with  a  re- 
tinue of  her  people*  enquiring  after  my  Captain.  He  shuns  her  as  much  a$  possi- 
ble, dbeit  in  her  absence,  and  in  his  Historic,  he  makes  the  finest  speaches  in  her 
praise.  The  truth  is,  he  feares  his  fowle  adventure  will  outf  and  I  suspect  he  is.  torn 
betwixt  his  reluctance  to  wed  her  (and  thus  make  an  honest  woman  of  her),  and 
his  desire  once  againe  to  $4te  his  lust  on  her.  For  albeit  the  verie  sownd  of  his 
voice  doth  sicken  my  stomdcke,  so  do  I  loathe  him,  yet  he  cannot  contain  his 


[784]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

lewd  exployt,  but  must  still  catch  privilie  my  eare,  and  declare  that  hers  ivczs  the 
most  succulent  ftowr  ever  he  pluckt,  &  cet.,  &  cet. 

As  for  the  Princesse,  she  still  lingers  at  the  gate,  dl  wystfullie,  and  sends  him, 
by  her  attendants,  woven  basketts  of  great  dry' d  egg-plants.  .  . 

"God's  body!"  Burlingame  cried  at  the  end.  "Your  Excellency,  look 

here!" 

Nicholson  smiled  from  the  green  table,  where  he  was  completing  the 
transaction  with  Sowter.  "New  matter  against  Coode,  is't?" 

"Coodebe  damned!"  Burlingame  replied.  "Here,  read  it,  sir!  Tis  all  about 
the  mysterious  egg-plant  business  I  spoke  of  before!  T God,  if  only  the  recipe 
were  there  as  well!  Tis  some  encaustic,  or  aphrodisiac,  don't  ye  think,  Eben? 
That  'fyrie  red  hue7  sounds  very  like  phlogosis  ...  But  many,  what  is  the 
trick?  I  could  save  this  miserable  Province  with  it!" 

"Go  to,  ye  lose  me!"  Nicholson  protested,  as  mystified  as  everyone  else  ex- 
cept Ebenezer;  but  when  the  contents  of  the  Journall  and  their  significance 
were  explained  to  him,  his  face  grew  quite  grave.  "  'Twere  a  risky  adventure 
even  so,"  he  declared,  referring  to  Burlingame's  proposed  embassy  to 
Bloodsworth  Island,  "but  with  this  egg-plant  trick  to  confound  'em  .  .  ." 

"I  could  do  it!"  Burlingame  insisted.  "I'd  be  King  of  the  Ahatchwhoops 
by  the  week's  end  if  I  had  that  recipe!  Smith!"  He  turned  upon  the 
wondering  cooper.  "Where's  the  missing  part  of  these  papers?  I  swear  you'll 
not  leave  the  Province  till  we  have  it!" 

To  Ebenezer's  surprise,  before  the  cooper  could  protest  his  bewilderment, 
Joan  Toast  spoke  up  for  the  first  time. 

44  'Tis  vain  to  threaten  him,"  she  said.  "He  hath  no  idea  what  you  want, 
or  where  to  find  it.  I  stole  those  pages,  and  I  mean  to  keep  them." 

Burlingame,  Nicholson,  and  Sir  Thomas  all  pleaded  with  her  to  surrender 
the  missing  passages,  or  at  least  to  disclose  the  trick  which  Captain  John 
Smith  had  employed  to  win  the  day  in  Virginia;  they  explained  the  gravity 
of  the  situation  on  Bloodsworth  Island  and  Henry's  strategy  to  forestall 
an  insurrection— but  to  no  avail. 

"Look  at  me!"  the  girl  cried  bitterly.  "Behold  the  fruits  of  lustfulness! 
Swived  in  my  twelfth  year,  poxed  in  my  twentieth,  and  dead  in  my  twenty- 
first!  Ravaged,  ruined,  raped,  and  betrayed!  Woman's  lot  is  wretched  enough 
at  best;  d'ye  think  I'll  pass  on  that  murtherous  receipt  to  make  it  worse?" 

In  vain  then  did  Burlingame  vow  never  to  employ  Smith's  formula  for 
carnal  purposes,  but  only  to  demonstrate  his  identity  to  the  Ahatchwhoops. 

"The  Devil  -was  sick,  the  Devil  a  monk  -would  be"  Joan  retorted.  "The 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  785  ] 

time  will  come  when  ye  crave  a  child  by  Anna  yonder,  or  some  other  ...  I 
shan't  e'en  make  the  vile  stuff  for  ye  myself!" 

"Then  it  is  some  potion  he  takes!"  cried  Henry.  "Or  is't  a  sort  of  plaster?" 

Nicholson  pounded  his  stick  on  the  floor.  "We  must  know,  girll  Name 
thy  price  for't!" 

Joan  laughed.  "D'ye  think  to  bribe  the  dead?  Nay,  sir,  the  Great  Tom 
Leech  bites  sore  enough,  God  knows;  I'll  not  give  him  more  teeth  than  he 

hath  already!  But  stay "  Her  manner  suddenly  became  shrewd,  like 

Sowter's.  "I  may  name  my  price,  ye  say?" 

"Within  reason,  of  course,"  the  Governor  affirmed.  "What  ye  ask  must  be 
ours  to  give." 

"Very  well,  then,"  Joan  declared.  "My  price  is  Maiden." 

"Nay!"  Andrew  cried. 

"Nay,  prithee!"  pleaded  Ebenezer,  who  until  then  had  found  the 
discussion  as  embarrassing  as  had  Anna. 

"  Tis  a  hard  price,"  Burlingame  observed,  regarding  her  curiously. 

"Not  for  doing  so  great  a  disservice  to  my  sex,"  Joan  replied. 

Now  even  McEvoy  was  moved  to  join  the  chorus  of  objections.  " Whate'er 
will  ye  do  with  this  estate,  my  dear?"  he  asked  gently.  "  Tis  of  no  use  to  ye 
now.  If  there  is  someone  ye  wish  to  provide  for,  why,  peradventure  the 
Governor  can  make  arrangements." 

Joan  turned  her  face  to  him,  and  her  expression  softened,  if  her  resolution 
did  not.  "Ye  know  as  well  as  I  there's  no  one,  John.  Why  d'ye  ask?  Can  it 
be  ye've  forgot  the  whoremonger's  first  principle?"  For  the  benefit  of  the 
others  she  repeated  it:  "Ye  may  ask  a  whore  her  price,  but  not  her  reasons. 
My  price  is  the  title  to  Cooke's  Point,  forever  and  aye:  ye  may  take  it  or  leave 
it" 

Nicholson  and  Burlingame  exchanged  glances. 

"Done,"  said  the  Governor.  "Draw  up  the  papers,  Tom." 

"Nay,  b'm'  faith!"  cried  Andrew.  "Tis  unlawful!  When  Smith  gave  o'er 
his  claim,  the  title  reverted  to  me!" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Burlingame.  "It  reverted  to  the  Province." 

"Damn  ye,  man!  Whose  side  are  ye  on?" 

"On  the  side  of  the  Province,  for  the  nonce,"  Henry  answered.  "Those 
pages  are  worth  a  brace  of  Maidens." 

Andrew  threatened  to  appeal  to  the  Lords  Commissioners,  but  the 
Governor  was  not  to  be  intimidated. 

"I've  seldom  stood  on  firmer  ground  than  this,"  he  declared.  "When  I 


[  y86  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

move  to  save  the  Province  ye  may  appeal  to  the  King  himself,  for  aught  ye'll 
gain  by't,  and  Godspeed.  Where  are  the  papers,  Mrs.  Cooke?" 

Not  until  he  heard  the  unfamiliar  mode  of  address  did  Ebenezer  have 
the  least  hint  of  Joan's  motives.  Now  suddenly,  though  a  hint  was  all  he 
had,  his  backbone  tingled;  his  heart  glowed. 

"Where  are  thine?"  she  demanded  in  reply,  nor  would  she  stir  until 
Sir  Thomas  had  conveyed  the  title  to  Cooke's  Point  into  her  possession. 
Then  she  calmly  reached  into  her  bodice  and  withdrew  a  tightly  folded 
paper  which,  when  she  handed  it  to  Burlingame  for  unfolding,  proved  to  be 
three  missing  pages  of  the  Journal!. 

"  'Sheart,  Eben,  look  here!"  Henry  cried.  "May  he  look,  Joan?" 

"  'Tis  not  mine  to  forbid,"  the  girl  said  glumly,  and  seemed  to  relapse 
into  her  former  apathy. 

First,  read  the  missing  fragment,  he  pour'd  a  deale  of  -water  into  the  dish  of 
ftoure,  and  worked  the  mess  to  a  thick  paste  -with  his  fingers.  Then  he  set  the  re- 
mainder of  the  water,  in  its  vessell,  next  the  smalle  fyre,  w°h  the  Salvage  had  been 
Christian  enough  to  make  us,  against  the  cold.  Whenas  he  sawe  this  water  com- 
mence to  steem  and  bubble,  then  drewe  he  from  his  pockett  (iv°*  forsooth  must 
needs  have  been  a  spacious  onel),  divers  ingredients,  and  added  them  to  the  paste. 
Of  these  I  cd  name  but  few,  forasmuch  as  I  durst  not  discover  to  my  Captain  that 
my  sleep  was  feign' d;  but  I  did  learn  later  from  his  boasting  that  it  was  a  receipt 
much  priz'd  for  a  certain  purpose  (whereof  I  was  as  yet  innocent)  by  the  blacka- 
moors of  Africka,  from  whom  he  had  learnt  it.  To  witt:  a  quantitie  of  Tightening 
Wood  (w°*  is  to  say,  the  bark  of  that  tree,  Nux  vomica,  wherefrom  is  got  the 
brucine  and  strychnyne  of  apothecaries),  2  or  3  small  dry'd  pimyentoes  (that  the 
blackamoors  call  Zozos),  a  dozen  peppercorns,  and  as  many  whole  cloves,  with  i 
or  2  beanes  of  vanilla  to  give  it  fragrance.  At  the  same  time  he  boyl'd  a  second 
decoction  of  water  mix*d  with  some  dropps  of  oyl  of  mallow,  to  what  end  I  c?  not 
guesse.  These  severall  herbs  and  spyces,  I  $hd  add,  he  still  carr'd  on  his  person,  not 
alone  for  their  present  employment,  but  as  well  to  season  his  food,  w*h  in  his 
yeeres  of  fighting  the  Moors  he  had  learnt  to  savour  hott;  and  for  this  cause  he  did 
prevaile  upon  the  masters  of  vessells,  to  fetch  him  such  spyces  from  there  ports  of 
call  in  the  Indies. 

When  that  the  paste  was  done,  and  the  water  fast  dboyl  in  both  vesseUs,  my 
Captain  busy'd  him  selfe  with  cutting  the  egg-plant,  a.  dry'd  one  from  the  Sal- 
vage store,  and  this  in  a  singular  wise.  For  it  is  the  wont  of  men  to  lay  hold  of  an 
Aubergine  and  slyce  across  the  topp,  to  the  end  of  making  thinne  rownd  sec- 
tions. But  my  Captain,  drawing  his  knife  from  his  waiste,  did  sever  the  frute  into 
halves,  splitting  it  lengthwise  from  top  to  bottom.  Next  he  scofd  out  a  deep  hol- 
low ditch  in  either  moietie,  in  such  wise,  but  when  the  two  halves  were  joyrfd, 
like  halves  of  an  iron-mould,  the  effect  was  of  deep  cylindrick  cavitie  in  the  cen- 
ter, perhaps  3  inches  in  dyameter,  and  7  or  8  in  profunditie,  for  that  it  was  an  un- 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  -787  ] 

common  large  egg-plant.  All  this  I  did  observe  with  mounting  curiositie,  yet 
careful  not  to  discover  my  pretence  of  sleep. 

The  strange  brewes  having  cook'd  a  certain  time,  my  Captain  then  remov'd 
them  from  the  fyre.  The  first,  that  had  in  it  all  the  spyces,  he  stirr'd  and  kneaded 
into  the  paste,  till  the  whole  took  on  the  semblance  of  a  plaister.  lie  next  disrob'd 
him  selfe,  and  before  my  wondering  eyes  layrd  hands  upon  his  member,  drawing 
back  that  part,  that  the  Children  of  Israel  are  wont  to  offer  to  Jehovah,  and  ex- 
posing the  carnall  glans.  His  codd  thus  bar'd  (woh  poets  have  liken* d  to  that  Ser- 
pent, that  did  tempt  Mother  Eve  in  the  Garden),  he  apply' d  thereto  the  plaister, 
and  lay'd  it  within  the  two  hdves  of  the  egg-plant.  There  it  lingered  some 
minutes,  notwithstanding  the  ordeall  must  needs  have  been  painfull,  for  all  the 
spyce  &  hott  things  in  the  receipt  His  face  did  wrythe  &  twist,  as  though  it 
were  straight  into  the  fyre  he  had  thrust  his  yard,  and  whenas  he  at  last  remov'd 
the  Aubergine,  and  wash'd  away  the  plaister  with  his  oyl-of-mallow  brewe,  I  cd 
observe  with  ease  that  his  part  was  burnt  in  sooth!  Moreover,  he  did  seem  loath 
to  touch  it  for  feare  of  the  payne  thereby  occasion' d. 

Now  albeit  this  spectacle  was  far  from  edifying,  to  a  man  of  good  conscience 
&  morall  virtue,  I  yet  must  own,  I  took  greate  interest  in  it,  both  by  reason  of 
naturall  curiositie,  as  well  as  to  gage  for  my  selfe  the  depths  of  my  Captains 
depravitie.  For  it  is  still  pleasing,  to  a  Christian  man,  to  suffer  him  selfe  the  studie 
of  wickednesse,  that  he  may  content  him  selfe  (without  sinfull  pride)  upon  the 
contrast  thereof  with  his  owne  rectitude.  To  say  naught  of  that  truth,  whereto 
Augustine  and  other  Fathers  beare  witnesses  that  true  virtue  lieth  not  in  inno- 
cence, but  in  full  knowledge  of  the  Devils  subtile  arts .  .  . 

Thus  ended  the  fragment,  having  brought  Sir  Henry  to  his  unintended 
sleep  and  rude  awakening. 

"I  can  do'tl"  Burlingame  murmured.  "  Tis  all  I  need!" 

Ebenezer  looked  away,  revolted  not  only  by  the  narrative  but  by  other, 
more  immediate  images.  He  observed  that  Anna  too,  though  she  had  not 
read  the  Journall,  was  quite  aware  of  its  significance:  her  eyes  were  lowered; 
her  cheeks  aflame* 

"Well,  now,*'  declared  the  Governor,  rising  from  his  place.  "I  think 
our  business  here  is  done,  Tom,  Fetch  those  rascals  aboard  my  ship  in  the 
morning  and  see  they're  ferried  to  Pennsylvania." 

The  others  stirred  as  well— outraged,  disappointed,  or  merely  perplexed 
by  the  outcome  of  the  evening. 

"La,  Master  Laureate!"  Sowter  jeered  from  across  the  room.  "The  party's 
done,  and  thou'rt  still  as  penceless  as  St.  Giles!" 

Andrew  cursed,  and  Nicholson  frowned  uncomfortably, 

"Thou'rt  mistaken,  Dick  Sowter,"  Joan  said  from  the  couch. 

Everyone  turned  to  her  at  once. 


[788]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"I've  little  time  to  live/'  she  declared,  "and  a  wife's  estate  passes  to  her 
husband  when  she  dies." 
Andrew  gasped.  "I'cod!  D'ye  hear  that,  Eben?" 

All  except  Sowter  and  Smith  rejoiced  at  this  disclosure  of  her  motive. 
Ebenezer  rushed  to  embrace  her,  and  Andrew  wept  for  joy. 
"Splendid  girl!  She  is  a  very  saint,  Roxanne!" 

But  Joan  turned  away  her  face.  "There  remains  but  a  single  danger,  that 
I  can  see/'  she  said.  "As  hath  been  observed  already  today,  a  false  marriage 
such  as  ours  may  be  disallowed,  and  my  bequests  thus  contested  in  the 
courts— inasmuch  as  it  hath  yet  to  be  consummated." 
The  company  fell  silent;  the  twins  drew  back  aghast. 
"Dear  Heav'n!"  Roxanne  whispered,  and  clutched  at  Andrew's  arm. 
Burlingame's  expression  was  fascinated. 

The  cooper  laughed  harshly.  "Oh,  my  word!  Ah!  Ah!  D'ye  hear  the  wench, 
Sowter?  She  is  the  very  Whore  o'  Babylon,  and  Cooke  must  swive  her  for's 
estate!  Oh,  ha!  I'd  not  touch  her  with  a  sot-weed  stick!" 

"My  boy "  Andrew  spoke  with  difficulty  to  his  son.  "She  hath— the 

social  malady,  don't  ye  know— and  albeit  I  love  Maiden  as  I  love  my  life,  I'd 

ne'er  think  ill  o'  ye " 

"Stay,"  interrupted  Burlingame.  "Ye'll  take  her  pox,  Eben,  but  ye'H  not 
die  oft,  methinks:  belike  7tis  a  mere  dev'lish  clap  and  not  the  French  disease. 

Marry,  lad,  inasmuch  as  Maiden  hangs  in  the  balance " 

Ebenezer  shook  his  head.  "  Tis  of  no  importance,  Henry.  Whatever  she 
hath,  she  hath  on  my  account,  by  reason  of  our  ill-starred  love.  I  little  care 
now  for  my  legacy,  save  that  I  must  earn  it.  'Tis  atonement  I  crave: 
redemption  for  my  sins  against  the  girl,  against  my  father,  against  Anna, 

e'en  against  you,  Henry " 

"What  sins?"  protested  Anna,  coming  to  his  side.  "Of  all  men  on  the 
planet,  Eben,  thou'rt  freest  from  sin!  What  else  drew  Joan  half  round  the 
globe,  do  you  think,  through  all  those  horrors,  if  not  that  quality  in  you 
that  hath  ruined  me  for  other  men  and  driven  e'en  Henry  to  near  distraction 

"  She  blushed,  realizing  she  had  spoken  too  much.  "Thou'rt  the  very 

spirit  of  Innocence,"  she  finished  quietly. 

"That  is  the  crime  I  stand  indicted  for/7  her  brother  replied:  "the  crime 
of  innocence,  whereof  the  Knowledged  must  bear  the  burthen.  There's  the 
true  Original  Sin  our  souls  are  born  in:  not  that  Adam  learned,  but  that 
he  had  to  learn— in  short,  that  he  was  innocent." 

He  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  couch  and  took  Joan's  hand.  "Once  before,  this 
girl  had  shriven  me  of  that  sin,  and  I  compounded  it  by  deserting  her. 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [789] 

Whatever  the  outcome,  I  rejoice  at  this  second  chance  for  absolution." 

"Marry!"  McEvoy  said.  "Ye  mean  to  do't?" 

"Aye." 

Anna  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  wept.  "How  I  love  you!  The 
four  of  us  will  live  here,  and  if  Henry  doth  not  stay  on  Bloodsworth  Island 
"  Her  voice  failed;  Burlingame  drew  her  back  gently  from  the  couch. 

Ebenezer  kissed  Joan's  hand  until  at  last  she  turned  her  haggard  eyes  to 
him. 

"Thou'rt  weary,  Joan." 

She  closed  her  eyes.  "Beyond  imagining." 

He  stood  up,  still  holding  her  hand,  "I've  not  strength  enough  yet  to 
carry  you  to  our  chamber  *  .  ,"  He  looked  about  awkwardly,  his  features 
dancing.  All  the  women  were  in  tears;  the  men  either  shook  their  heads,  like 
McEvoy  and  the  Governor,  or  winced,  like  Andrew,  or  merely  frowned  a 
grudging  awe,  like  Smith  and  Sowter. 

"I  claim  the  honor!"  Burlingame  cried,  and  the  spell  was  broken.  Everyone 
stirred  himself  to  cover  the  general  embarrassment:  Andrew  and  John 
McEvoy  busied  themselves  comforting  their  women;  Sir  Thomas  and  the 
Governor  assembled  their  papers  and  called  for  tobacco;  Smith  and  Sowter, 
accompanied  by  the  sergeant-at-arms,  left  the  room. 

Burlingame  lifted  Joan  in  his  arms.  "Good  night  all!"  he  called  merrily. 
"Tell  cook  well  want  a  wedding  breakfast  in  the  morning,  Andrew!"  As  he 
headed  for  the  hallway  he  added  with  a  laugh,  "See  to  what  lengths  the 
fallen  go,  to  increase  their  number!  Come  along,  Anna;  this  errand  wants 
a  chaperon." 

Blushing,  Anna  took  Ebenezer's  arm,  and  the  twins  followed  their 
chuckling  tutor  up  the  stairs. 

"Ah,  well  now!"  their  father's  voice  cried  from  the  parlor.  "We've  a  deal 
to  drink  to,  lords  and  ladies!"  And  addressing  the  unseen  servant  in  the 
kitchen  he  called  "Grace?  Grace!  'Sblood,  Grace,  fetch  us  a  rundletl" 


PART  IV:     THE  AUTHOR  APOLOGIZES 

TO  HIS  READERS; 
THE  LAUREATE  COMPOSES 

HIS  EPITAPH 


Lest  it  be  objected  by  a  certain  stodgy  variety  of  squint-minded  anti- 
quarians that  he  has  in  this  lengthy  history  played  more  fast  and  loose  with 
Clio,  the  chronicler's  muse,  than  ever  Captain  John  Smith  dared,  the  Au- 
thor here  posits  in  advance,  by  way  of  surety,  three  blue-chip  replies  arranged 
in  order  of  decreasing  relevancy.  In  the  first  place  be  it  remembered,  as 
Burlingame  himself  observed,  that  we  all  invent  our  pasts,  more  or  less,  as 
we  go  along,  at  the  dictates  of  Whim  and  Interest;  the  happenings  of  former 
times  are  a  clay  in  the  present  moment  that  will-we,  nill-we,  the  lot  of  us 
must  sculpt.  Thus  Being  does  make  Positivists  of  us  all.  Moreover,  this 
Clio  was  already  a  scarred  and  crafty  trollop  when  the  Author  found  her; 
it  wants  a  nice-honed  casuist,  with  her  sort,  to  separate  seducer  from 
seduced.  But  if,  despite  all,  he  is  convicted  at  the  Public  Bar  of  having 
forced  what  slender  virtue  the  strumpet  may  make  claim  to,  then  the  Author 
joins  with  pleasure  the  most  engaging  company  imaginable,  his  fellow 
fornicators,  whose  ranks  include  the  noblest  in  poetry,  prose,  and  politics; 
condemnation  at  such  a  bar,  in  short,  on  such  a  charge,  does  honor  to 
artist  and  artifact  alike,  of  the  same  order  of  magnitude  as  election  by  the 
Vatican  to  the  Index  Librorum  Prohibitorum  or  suppression  by  the  Watch 
and  Ward. 

Thus  much  for  the  rival  claims  of  Fact  and  Fancy,  which  the  artist,  like 
Governor  Nicholson,  may  override  with  fair  impunity.  However,  when  the 
litigants'  claims  are  formal,  rather  than  substantial,  they  pose  a  dilemma  from 
which  few  tale-tellers  escape  without  a  goring.  Such  is  the  Author's  present 
plight,  as  he  who  reads  may  judge. 

The  story  of  Ebenezer  Cooke  is  told;  Drama  wants  no  more  than  his 
consent  to  Joan  Toast's  terms,  their  sundry  implications  being  clear.  All  the 
rest  is  anticlimax:  the  same  stairs  that  take  him  up  to  the  bridal-chamber 
take  him  down  the  steep  incline  of  denouement.  To  the  history,  on  the 
other  hand,  there  is  so  much  more-all  grounded  on  meager  fact  and 


[  794  1  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

solid  fancy— that  the  Author  must  risk  those  rude  cornadas  to  resume  it  and 
trust  that  the  Reader  is  interested  enough  in  the  fate  of  the  twins,  their 
tutor,  Bertrand  Burton,  Slye  and  Scurry,  and  the  rest,  to  indulge  some 
pandering  to  Curiosity  at  Form's  expense  ,  .  . 

Andrew  Cooke's  conviction  (which  he  voiced  innumerable  times  in  the 
course  of  that  night's  rundlet  and  next  morning's  wedding  breadfast)  that 
the  sun  had  set  on  their  troubles  forever  and  would  rise  thenceforth  not  only 
on  a  happy  and  prosperous  family,  but  on  a  happier  and  nobler  Province  as 
well,  was— alas!— by  no  means  entirely  borne  out  by  history.  Indeed,  with 
the  possible  exception  of  William  Smith  the  cooper  and  Captain  Mitchell 
the  opium  merchant— both  of  whom  disappeared  from  Clio's  stage  not  long 
afterwards,  never  to  be  heard  from  to  this  day— it  cannot  be  said  that  the 
life  of  any  of  our  characters  was  markedly  blissful;  some,  to  be  sure,  were 
rather  more  serene,  but  others  took  more  or  less  serious  turns  for  the  worse, 
and  a  few  were  terminated  far  before  their  time. 

Tom  Tayloe,  for  example,  the  corpulent  dealer  in  indentured  servants, 
was  released  from  his  own  servitude  at  Maiden  immediately  upon  promising 
to  press  no  charges  against  McEvoy;  one  hoped  his  experience  would  lead 
him  into  a  less  unsavory  trade,  but  within  the  week  he  was  peddling 
redemptioners  again  all  over  Talbot  County,  and  a  few  years  later  he  was 
throttled  to  death  on  Tilghman's  Island  by  one  of  his  investments— a  giant 
Scot  with  all  of  McEvoy's  passion  for  liberty  and  none  of  his  resourcefulness. 
No  more  fortunate  was  Benjamin  Spurdance,  "the  man  who  had  naught  to 
lose":  Andrew  discovered  him  in  the  jail  in  Annapolis,  serving  a  sentence 
for  petty  thievery,  and  restored  him  to  his  former  position  as  overseer  of  the 
tobacco-fields  on  Cooke's  Point,  but  vagrancy  and  despair  had  so  debilitated 
him  that,  the  very  next  winter,  an  ague  robbed  him  forever  of  the  only 
thing  he  had  not  previously  lost. 

It  may  be  said  of  Colonel  Robotham,  who  succumbed  to  a  like  infirmity  in 
April  of  1698,  that  Life  owed  him  no  more  years;  but  who  will  not  regret 
that  his  journey  ended,  not  in  disgrace— which,  when  complete,  can  be 
as  refreshing  as  success— but  in  embarrassment?  A  collaborator  in  the 
revolution  of  '89  and  a  Councilman  under  both  royal  governors  of  Mary- 
land, he  and  four  similarly  flexible  statesmen  fled  cravenly  to  England  in 
1696,  when  Nicholson  opened  his  prosecution  of  their  former  leader.  To 
add  to  his  humiliation,  Lucy  never  found  a  husband.  Her  child,  a  girl,  was 
born  as  it  had  been  conceived,  out  of  wedlock,  and  raised  on  the  Colonel's 
estate  by  his  widow.  Lucy  herself  fell  farther  and  farther  from  respectability: 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  79$  ] 

abandoning  her  child,  she  lived  openly  in  Port  Tobacco  as  the  mistress  of 
her  seducer,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Tubman,  until  that  gentleman  and  his 
colleague,  the  Reverend  Peregrine  Cony,  were  suspended  by  their  bishop  in 
1698  on  charges  of  drunkenness,  gambling,  and  bigamy;  of  her  life  thereafter 
nothing  positive  is  known,  but  one  is  distressed  to  hear  of  a  young  prostitute 
in  Russecks's  Tavern  (which  Mary  Mungummory  purchased  from 
Roxanne's  estate  and  operated  jointly  with  Harvey  Russecks)  who  achieved 
some  fame  among  the  lower-Dorset  trappers  by  reason  of  "a  Beare  upon 
her  &umm"~- could  it  have  been  a  freckled  Ursa  Major? 

At  least  the  Colonel  was  spared  the  chore  of  arranging  a  second  annulment 
for  his  daughter,  inasmuch  as  she  became  a  widow  before  she  was  a  mother. 
Poor  Bertrand*  after  that  final  lucid  hour  with  Ebenezer,  lapsed  first  into 
prolonged  delirium,  in  the  course  of  which  he  accepted  the  worship  of 
"Good  Saint  Drakepecker,"  held  forth  as  Poet  Laureate  of  Brandan's  Isle, 
and  deflowered  harems  of  Betsy  Birdsalls  and  Lucy  Robothams;  then  he 
sank  into  a  coma,  from  which  Burlingame  and  a  physician  strove  in  vain 
to  rouse  him,  and  three  days  later  died  in  his  bed  at  Maiden.  Ebenezer 
was  greatly  saddened  by  his  death,  not  only  because  he  felt  some  measure  of 
responsibility  for  it,  but  also  because  the  ordeals  they  had  survived  together 
had  given  him  a  genuine  affection  for  his  "adviser";  yet  just  as  scarlet  fever 
may  cure  a  man  of  the  vapors,  so  his  distress  at  losing  Bertrand  was  eclipsed 
by  the  far  more  grievous  loss  that  followed  on  its  heels:  Joan  Toast,  as 
everyone  expected,  succumbed  before  the  year  was  out— on  the  second 
night  in  November  1695,  to  be  exact— but  it  was  neither  her  opium  nor 
her  pox  that  carried  her  off.  Without  them,  to  be  sure,  she  would  have 
survived;  they  felled  and  disarmed  her;  but  the  coup  de  grdce—ty  one  of 
those  monstrous  ironies  that  earlier  had  moved  Ebenezer  to  call  Life  a 
shameless  playwright— was  administered  by  childbirth!  Hear  the  story: 

After  that  evening  which  regained  Cook's  Point  for  Ebenezer  (and  ended 
our  plot)  there  was  a  general  exodus  from  Maiden.  Governor  Nicholson, 
Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  William  Smith,  and  Richard  Sowter  sailed  for  Anne 
Arundel  Town  the  next  day,  and  the  militiamen  went  their  separate  ways; 
Burlingame  tarried  until  he  could  do  no  more  for  Bertrand  and  then  struck 
out  alone  on  his  perilous  embassy  to  Bloodsworth  Island,  promising  to 
return  in  the  spring  and  marry  Anna— to  which  match  her  father  had 
consented,  John  McEvoy  and  Henrietta,  on  whom  Andrew  also  bestowed 
his  blessing,  were  married  soon  after  in  the  parlor  at  Maiden  (to  the  tearful 
joy  of  the  Parisienne  in  the  kitchen)  and  sailed  for  England  as  soon  as 
Sir  Harry's  will  was  probated;  moreover,  contrary  to  the  general  expectation, 


[796]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Roxanne  went  with  them,  whether  because  her  old  love  for  Andrew  had 
not  got  the  better  of  her  grievance,  or  because  she  deemed  herself  too  old 
for  further  involvements  or  too  scarred  by  her  life  with  the  brutish  miller, 
or  for  some  other,  less  evident  reason.  Andrew  followed  them,  leaving 
Maiden  to  the  care  of  his  son  and  Ben  Spurdance,  and  it  pleased  the  twins 
to  conjecture  that  Roxanne  meant  to  marry  their  father  after  all,  but  not 
before  repaying  him  in  his  own  coin.  However,  if  Andrew  entertained  hopes 
of  winning  her  by  siege,  as  it  were,  they  were  never  realized:  on  the  income 
from  her  estate  she  toured  Europe  with  her  daughter  and  son-in-law.  McEvoy 
went  through  the  motions  of  studying  music  with  Lotti  in  Venice,  but 
apparently  lost  interest  in  composition;  he  and  Henrietta  lived  a  childless, 
leisurely  life  until  September  of  1715,  when  they  and  Roxanne,  along  with 
fifty  other  souls,  set  out  from  Piraeus  in  the  ship  DizZdoon,  bound  for  Cadiz, 
and  were  never  heard  from  again. 

By  spring,  then,  everyone  had  left  except  the  twins  and  Joan  Toast,  and 

life  at  Maiden  settled  into  a  tranquil  routine.  Ebenezer  did  indeed  contract 

his  wife's  malady,  which,  though  virtually  incurable,  he  contrived  to  hold 

in  check  by  means  of  certain  herbs  and  other  pharmaceuticals  provided 

him  earlier  by  Burlingame  (who,  the  Reader  will  not  be  surprised  to  hear, 

seemed  as  familiar  with  medicine  and  even  chirurgery  as  with  so  many  other 

arcane  matters),  so  that  for  the  time  at  least  he  suffered  only  a  mild 

discomfort;  and  after  the  first  two  weeks  Joan's  health  grew  too  delicate  to 

permit  further  physical  relations  with  her  husband.  The  three  devoted  most 

of  their  time  to  reading,  music,  and  other  gentle  pursuits.  The  twins  were 

as  close  as  they  had  ever  been  at  St.  Giles,  with  the  difference  that  their 

bond  was  inarticulate:  those  dark,  unorthodox  aspects  of  their  affection 

which  had  so  alarmed  them  in  the  recent  past  were  ignored  as  if  they  had 

never  existed;  indeed,  the  simple  spectator  of  their  current  life  might  well 

have  inferred  that  the  whole  thing  was  but  a  creation  of  Burlingame's 

fancy,  but  a  more  sophisticated  observer— or  cynical,  if  you  will— would  raise 

an  eyebrow  at  the  relish  with  which  Ebenezer  confessed  his  earlier  doubts  of 

Henry's  good  will,  and  the  zeal  with  which  he  now  declared  that  Burlingame 

was  "more  than  a  friend;  more  e'en  than  a  brother-in-law-to-be:  he  is  my 

brother,  Anna— aye,  and  hath  been  from  the  first!"  And  would  this  same 

cynic  not  smile  at  Anna's  timid  devotion  to  the  invalid  Joan,  whom  every 

morning  she  helped  to  wash  and  dress? 

The  equinox  passed.  In  April,  true  to  his  word,  Burlingame  appeared  at 
Ma' den,  for  all  the  world  an  Ahatch whoop  in  dress. and  coiffure,  and 
announced  that,  thanks  to  the  spectacular  effect  of  the  Magic  Aubergine 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

(for  which,  owing  to  the  season,  he  had  substituted  an  Indian  gourd),  his 
expedition  had  achieved  a  large  measure  of  success;  he  was  positively 
enamored,  of  his  new-found  family  and  much  impressed  by  Quassapelagh  and 
the  able  Drepacca— whose  relations,  he  added,  had  deteriorated  gratifyingly. 
He  felt  confident  that  he  could  get  the  better  of  them,  but  of  his  brother  he 
was  not  so  sure:  Cohunkowprets,  thirsty  for  blood,  had  the  advantage  of 
copper-colored  skin,  and  the  problem  of  deposing  him  was  complicated  by 
Burlingame's  great  love  for  him.  His  work  there,  Henry  concluded,  was  not 
done;  he  had  planted  the  seeds  of  faction,  but  after  marrying  Anna  he  would 
be  obliged  to  return  to  the  Island  for  the  summer,  to  cultivate  them  properly. 

His  appearance  disrupted  the  placid  tenor  of  life  at  Maiden.  Anna  had 
grown  increasingly  nervous  with  the  coming  spring,  and  now  she  seemed 
positively  on  the  verge  of  hysteria:  she  could  not  sit  still  or  permit  a 
moment's  lull  in  conversation;  her  moods  were  as  various  as  the  faces  of  the 
Chesapeake,  and  changed  more  frequently  and  less  predictably;  a  risqu6 
remark— such  as  Ebenezer's,  that  he  had  seen  dried  Indian  gourds  in 
Spurdance's  cabin  on  the  property— was  enough  to  send  her  weeping  from 
the  room,  but  on  occasion  she  would  tease  her  brother  most  unkindly  about 
his  infection  and  speculate,  with  deplorable  bad  taste,  what  effect  the 
eggplant-plaster  might  have  on  it.  Burlingame  observed  her  behavior  with 
great  interest. 

"You  do  want  to  wed  me,  Anna?"  he  asked  at  last 

"Of  course!"  she  insisted.  "But  I'll  own  I'd  rather  wait  till  the  fall,  when 
thou'rt  done  with  the  Salvages  for  ever  and  aye  *  .  .  " 

Henry  smiled  at  Ebenezer.  "As  you  wish,  my  love.  Then  methinks  111 
leave  tomorrow— The  sooner  departed,  the  sooner  returned,  as  they  say." 

To  what  happened  in  the  interval  between  this  conversation,  which  took 
place  at  breakfast,  and  Burlingame's  departure  twenty-four  hours  later, 
Ebenezer  could  scarcely  have  been  oblivious:  the  very  resoluteness  with 
which  he  banished  the  thought  from  his  mind  (only  to  have  it  recur  more 
vividly  each  time)  argues  his  awareness  of  the  possibility;  his  sudden  need 
to  help  Spurdance  oversee  the  afternoon's  planting  argues  his  approval  of 
the  prospect;  and  his  inability  to  sleep  that  night,  even  with  cotton  in  his 
ears  and  the  pillow  over  his  head,  argues  his  suspicion  of  the  fact.  Anna 
kept  to  her  room  next  morning,  and  the  poet  was  obliged  to  bid  his  friend 
good-bye  for  the  two  of  them. 

"The  fall  seems  terribly  distant/'  he  observed  at  the  last. 

Henry  smiled  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Not  to  the  fallen,"  he  replied, 


[  798  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

"only  to  the  saved.  Adieu,  my  friend:  methinks  that  prophecy  of  Pope 
Clement's  will  come  to  pass." 

These  were  his  final  words  to  the  poet,  not  only  for  the  day  and  season, 
but  forever.  Later  that  day  Anna  declared  her  fear  that  Burlingame  would 
remain  with  the  Ahatchwhoops  all  his  life,  never  returning  to  marry  her;  and 
much  later— in  1724— she  confessed  that  she  had  sent  him  away  herself  in 
order  to  be,  literally  and  exclusively,  her  brother's  keeper.  In  any  event,  unless 
a  certain  fancy  of  Ebenezer's  later  years  was  actually  the  truth,  they  never 
saw  or  heard  from  their  friend  again.  Whether  owing  to  his  efforts  or  not, 
the  great  insurrection  did  not  materialize,  though  by  1696  it  seemed  so 
imminent  that  Nicholson  raised  the  penalties  for  sedition  almost  monthly: 
even  the  loyal  Piscataways,  who  had  fed  the  very  first  settlers  in  1634,  were  so 
inflamed— some  said  by  Governor  Andros  of  Virginia— that  they  abandoned 
their  towns  in  southern  Maryland  and  removed  to  the  western  mountains 
with  their  emperor  (Ochotomaquath)  and  either  starved,  they  being  fanners 
rather  than  hunters,  or  were  assimilated  into  northern  groups.  The  great 
Five  Nations,  thanks  to  the  efforts  of  Monsieur  Casteene,  General  Fronte- 
nac,  and  perhaps  Drepacca  as  well,  were  wooed  away  entirely  from  the  Eng- 
lish to  the  French,  and  the  massacres  of  Schenectady  and  Albany  would  al- 
most surely  have  been  multiplied  throughout  the  English  provinces  had  the 
grand  conspirators  on  Bloodsworth  Island  not  been  divided.  The  fact  that 
Nicholson  never  mustered  a  force  to  attack  the  Island  itself  suggests  both 
communication  with  and  great  faith  in  Henry  Burlingame;  by  the  end  of 
the  century  the  place  was  an  uninhabited  marsh,  as  it  is  today.  One  supposes 
that  the  Ahatchwhoops,  under  whatever  leadership,  migrated  northward 
into  Pennsylvania  like  the  Nanticokes,  and  were  in  time  subsumed  into  the 
Five  Nations.  On  the  ultimate  fate  of  Quassapelagh,  Drepacca,  Co- 
hunkowprets,  and  Burlingame,  History  is  silent. 

But  though  the  twins'  extraordinary  friend  departed,  life  at  Maiden  never 
regained  its  former  serenity.  Anna  remained  in  a  highly  nervous  state,  for 
one  thing;  then  in  May  it  became  apparent  that  during  their  brief  cohabita- 
tion three  months  previously,  Joan  Toast  had  been  impregnated  by  her 
husband.  Here  was  a  grave  matter  indeed,  for  if  she  carried  the  fetus  to  term, 
the  labor  of  bearing  it  would  surely  kill  her,  and  in  any  event  the  child  would 
be  born  diseased;  thus  despite  his  sudden  passionate  desire  for  fatherhood, 
which  he  felt  with  an  intensity  that  frightened  him,  Ebenezer  was  obliged 
to  pray  for  a  spontaneous  early  abortion.  But  not  only  were  his  prayers 
unanswered:  as  if  in  punishment  for  his  having  made  them,  Anna  confessed 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  799  1 

in  midsummer  that  she  too  was  in  a  family  way,  and  it  took  all  the  resources 
of  the  poet's  rhetoric  to  dissuade  her  from  ending  her  life! 

"I— I'm  a  fallen  womanl"  she  would  lament,  fascinated  by  the  term. 
"Wholly  disgraced!" 

"Wholly,"  Ebenezer  would  agree:  "as  I  have  been  since  ever  I  came  to 
Maryland!  You  must  wed  thy  shame  to  mine  or  see  me  follow  you  to  the 
grave!" 

So  it  was  that  Anna  remained  at  Maiden,  in  relative  seclusion,  while 
among  the  servants  and  neighboring  planters  the  most  scandalous  stories 
ran  rife.  Once  Ebenezer  returned  ashen-faced  from  Cambridge  and 
declared:  "They're  saying  'twas  I  that  got  the  twain  of  you  with  child!" 

"What  did  you  expect?"  Anna  replied,  not  in  the  least  surprised.  "They 
know  naught  of  Henry,  and  'tis  unlikely  I'd  take  Mister  Spurdance  for  my 
lover." 

"But  why  me?"  Ebenezer  cried.  "Are  people  so  evil-minded  by  nature? 
Or  is't  God's  punishment  to  shame  us  as  if  we  did  in  sooth  what " 

Anna  smiled  grimly  at  his  discomposure.  "What  ever  and  aye  we've 
blushed  to  dream  of?  Haply  it  is,  Eben;  but  if  so,  His  sentence  hath  many 
a  precedent.  *Tis  the  universal  doubt  of  salvages  and  peasants,  whether  twins 
of  different  sexes  have  not  sinned  together  in  the  womb;  is't  likely  they'd 
think  us  guiltless  now?" 

But  there  is,  it  would  appear,  no  shame  so  monstrous  that  one  cannot 
learn  to  live  with  it  in  time:  no  visitors  called  at  Maiden,  and  Ebenezer's 
relations  with  his  domestic  staff  and  field  hands  grew  cold  and  formal,  but 
neither  he  nor  Anna  spoke  again  of  suicide,  even  when  it  began  to  be 
clear  that  Burlingame  was  not  going  to  return.  In  November  Joan  Toast 
died,  and  her  infant  daughter  as  well,  from  a  breech-birth  that  would  have 
carried  off  a  much  stronger  woman;  grief-stricken,  Ebenezer  buried  the  two 
of  them  down  by  the  shore,  beside  his  mother.  The  following  January  was 
Anna's  term:  her  brief  labor  commenced  late  at  night,  and  in  the  absence 
of  professional  assistance  she  was  delivered  of  a  healthy  male  child  by  Grace, 
the  Parisian  cook  (who  had  some  experience  of  midwifery)  and  the  poet 
himself.  There  being  little  likelihood  that  Andrew  Cooke  would  ever  return 
to  Maryland  or  hear  the  scandal  from  a  third  party,  Ebenezer  thought  it 
best  not  to  cloud  his  father's  old  age  with  the  truth:  instead,  he  wrote  that 
although  Joan  had  expired  in  childbirth,  their  baby— a  son  christened 
Andrew  Ill—had  lived,  and  was  being  cared  for  by  Anna.  The  old  man, 
needless  to  say,  was  overjoyed. 

This  fiction,  once  established,  had  a  marked  effect  on  Ebenezer  and  his 


[  800  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

sister.  Despite  her  shame,  Anna  seemed  eminently  suited  in  body  and  mind 
for  motherhood:  she  had  bloomed  during  pregnancy;  her  delivery  had  been 
easy;  now  her  breasts  were  rich  with  milk,  and  lament  as  she  might,  she 
feasted  upon  her  child  as  did  he  upon  her,  and  grew  as  plump  and  ruddy 
from  the  nursing.  They  did  in  fact  name  the  child  Andrew,  and  began  to 
consider  removing  from  Maiden  altogether  as  soon  as  feasible,  "for  the  boy's 
sake ..." 

But  this  brings  us  near  the  end  of  the  history,  and  it  will  be  necessary 
to  digress  for  a  moment  before  reaching  it  if  we  are  to  learn  the  fate  of  that 
arch-mischiefmaker  John  Coode,  of  the  saucy  Governor  who  prosecuted 
him,  and  of  Lord  Baltimore's  grand  crusade  to  recover  his  charter  to 
Maryland,  which  had  been  confiscated  by  King  William. 

Of  Coode,  then,  whom  Nicholson  was  wont  to  call  "a  diminutive  Ferguson 
in  point  of  Government;  a  Hobbist  in  point  of  Religion":  already  in 
November  of  1694,  while  Ebenezer  was  ill  and  languishing  at  Maiden,  the 
Governor  had  demanded  an  account  of  Coode's  disbursement  of  public 
revenue  and  had  charged  him  with,  among  other  misdemeanors,  accepting 
an  illegal  award  of  four  thousand  pounds  of  tobacco  from  the  Lower  House 
for  his  services  to  the  Rebellion,  stealing  the  records  of  his  criminal  courts 
for  1691,  embezzling  public  funds  in  the  amount  of  five  hundred  thirty- 
two  pounds  two  shillings  and  ninepence  as  chief  of  the  Protestant 
Associators  (not  to  mention  four  hundred  more  as  Receiver  General  for  the 
Potomac  and  yet  another  seven  hundred  in  bills  of  exchange  as  Collector 
for  Wicomico  River),  impersonating  a  Papist  priest  and  an  Anglican  rector, 
conspiring  against  Governor  and  King  alike,  and  blaspheming  against  the 
Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost.  In  July  of  1696,  on  the  strength  of 
his  new  evidence,  Nicholson  instituted  proceedings  against  him  and  took 
depositions  from  divers  officials  and  citizens  on  the  several  charges,  where- 
upon his  quarry  fled  to  the  protection  of  Andros  in  Virginia.  From  there  (so 
went  the  rumors,  for  few  people  claimed  ever  to  have  seen  him  with  their 
own  eyes)  he  communicated  secretly  with  his  agents,  particularly  Gerrard 
Slye  and  Sam  Scurry—the  former  of  whom  he  prompted  to  publish  "Articles 
of  Charge"  against  Nicholson  to  the  Lords  Justices  in  London,  accusing  the 
Governor  of  everything  from  Papism  and  unnatural  practices  to  the  murder 
of  one  Henry  Denton,  Clerk  of  the  Council  and  "material  witness  to  his 
misdeeds."  Despite  his  problems  with  privateers  in  the  Bay,  Frenchmen  on 
the  border,  Indians  all  about  the  Province,  and  various  murrains  and 
endemics,  Nicholson  contrived  during  this  period  to  found  a  college  in 
Anne  Arundel  Town  (whose  name  had  become  Annapolis),  defend  himself 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  8oi  ] 

against  Slye's  charges,  and  finally,  in  the  summer  of  1698,  order  two  sloops 
and  a  hundred  men  to  capture  Coode  and  Slye  on  the  Potomac  River.  The 
lesser  man  was  apprehended  and  brought  to  justice,  whereupon  he 
immediately  pled  coercion  by  his  superior;  but  Coode  himself  eluded  the 
trap. 

One  is  pained  to  learn  that  at  this  point  matters  were  removed  from  the 
doughty  Governor's  hands.  In  an  action  calculated  to  solve  a  number  of 
problems  at  once,  His  Majesty  commissioned  Nicholson  to  replace  his  old 
rival,  Sir  Edmund  Andros,  in  Virginia,  who,  having  fallen  out  of  royal  favor 
by  his  attacks  on  Dr.  Blair  of  William  and  Mary's  College,  was  demoted  to 
a  minor  governorship  in  the  West  Indies.  In  January  of  1699  (1698  by  the 
old  calendar)  the  transfer  was  effected,  and  almost  at  once  Coode  was 
reported  to  have  returned  triumphantly  to  St.  Mary's  County.  Some  said 
he  misjudged  Nathaniel  Blackiston,  Nicholson's  successor  and  a  nephew  of 
Coode's  own  brother-in-law,  inasmuch  as  Blackiston  actually  arrested  him 
in  May  of  the  same  year;  others  maintained  that  such  naivet6  was  unthink- 
able in  so  shrewd  an  intriguer.  It  was  simple  collusion,  they  claimed,  and 
their  cynicism  seems  justified  when  one  learns  that  in  July  of  the  following 
year  Coode  was  pardoned  and  released  at  his  own  request,  and  by  1708  was 
actually  licensed  to  practice  law  in  the  St.  Mary's  County  Court!  But  an- 
other view,  less  cynical  and  more  subtle,  was  advanced  by  Ebenezer  Cooke 
to  his  sister  at  the  time:  no  trace  had  ever  been  found  or  mention  made 
of  Captain  Scurry,  he  pointed  out,  since  early  in  the  trial  of  Captain  Slye. 
Was  it  not  entirely  within  the  scope  of  possibility  that  the  man  arrested 
and  pardoned  under  Coode's  name  was  this  same  Scurry,  either  in  collusion 
with  Blackiston  or  otherwise?  Ebenezer  thought  it  was,  and  thus  returned 
to  the  more  basic  question:  did  the  "real"  John  Coode  exist  at  all  inde- 
pendently of  his  several  impersonators,  or  was  he  merely  a  fiction  created 
by  his  supposed  collaborators  for  the  purpose  of  shedding  their  responsi- 
bilities, just  as  businessmen  incorporate  limited-liability  companies  to 
answer  for  their  adventures? 

In  any  case,  one  knows  that  John  Coode  never  attained  the  grand  ob- 
jectives attributed  to  him,  and  neither  did  that  shadowy  figure  presumed 
to  be  at  the  other  pole  of  morality,  Lord  Baltimore— at  least  not  in  his 
lifetime.  For  however  ambiguous  Charles  Calvert's  means  and  motives,  if 
he  existed  at  all  (and  if  Burlingame  did  not  entirely  misrepresent  him)  one 
assumes  at  least  that  he  was  anxious  to  recover  his  family's  proprietary  rights 
to  Maryland.  This  much  granted,  he  must  have  died  in  1715  a  doubly 
disappointed  man,  for  not  only  was  Maryland  under  the  rule  of  her  sixth 


[  802  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

Royal  Governor,  but  his  son  and  heir,  Benedict  Leonard  Calvert,  had  two 
years  previously  renounced  Catholicism  in  favor  of  the  Church  of  England, 
at  the  expense  of  his  annual  allowance  of  four  hundred  fifty  pounds.  It  was 
this  very  defection,  however,  that  set  in  progress  a  swift  and  dramatic  change 
in  the  family  fortunes:  Charles  Calvert  died  on  the  twentieth  of  February, 
and  the  outcast  Benedict  Leonard  became  the  fourth  Lord  Baltimore;  but 
less  than  two  months  later,  on  April  5,  Benedict  himself  passed  on,  and  the 
title  was  inherited  by  his  sixteen-year-old  son,  also  named  Charles.  Now  this 
fifth  Lord  Baltimore  was  not  only  a  Protestant  like  his  father,  but  a  hand- 
some, dissolute  courtier  to  boot,  so  well  respected  in  the  royal  house  for  his 
abilities  at  pimping  and  intrigue  that  in  time  he  became  Gentleman  of  the 
Bedchamber  to  the  Prince  of  Wales.  With  this  formidable  array  of  qualifi- 
cations in  his  favor,  it  took  him  exactly  one  month  to  do  what  his  grand- 
father had  not  managed  in  twenty-five  years:  in  May  of  1715,  His  Majesty 
George  I  restored  to  him  the  charter  of  Maryland,  its  almost  monarchic 
original  privileges  intact. 

These  marvels  alone,  it  seems  to  the  Author,  are  sufficient  evidence  to 
convict  Mistress  Clio  on  the  charge  of  shamelessness  once  lodged  against 
her  by  our  poet;  what  then  is  one  to  think  on  seeing  this  same  young 
Baltimore,  in  1728,  offer  to  Ebenezer  Cooke  a  bona  fide  commission  as 
Poet  and  Laureate  of  Maryland?  "On  to  Hecuba!"  as  our  poet  was  wont 
to  cry.  Or,  after  the  manner  of  his  hybrid  metaphors:  let  us  plumb  this  muse's 
farce  to  its  final  sorry  deep  and  ring  the  curtain! 

First,  the  Reader  must  know  that  after  the  burst  of  inspiration  which  drove 
him,  during  his  convalescence  at  Maiden  in  the  winter- of  1694,  to  compose 
not  the  promised  Marylandiad  but  a  Hudibrastic  expos£  of  the  ills  that 
had  befallen  him,  Ebenezer  wrote  no  further  verse  for  thirty-four  years. 
Whether  this  fallowness  was  owing  to  the  loss  of  his  virginity,  dissatisfaction 
with  his  talents,  absence  of  inspiration,  alteration  of  his  personality,  or  some 
more  subtle  cause,  it  would  be  idle  presumption  to  say— the  springs  of  art 
are  deep  beyond  the  ken  of  those  who  drink  there—but  Ebenezer  was  as 
astonished  as  will  be  the  Reader  to  find  that  precisely  during  these  decades 
his  fame  as  a  poet  increased  yearly!  The  manuscript  of  his  attack  on  Mary- 
land, one  remembers,  Ebenezer  had  taken  with  him  on  his  shameful  flight 
from  Maiden  and  entrusted,  via  Burlingame,  to  the  captain  of  the  bark 
Pilgrim,  which  the  two  friends  left  at  St.  Mary's  City.  At  the  time,  Ebenezer 
had  been  apprehensive  over  its  safety  and  had  exacted  assurances  from  Bur- 
lingame that  the  captain  would  deliver  it  to  a  London  printer;  but  in  the 
rush  of  events  thereafter,  he  forgot  the  poem  entirely,  and  when,  after  the 


THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  803  ] 

christening  of  Andrew  III,  Life  eased  its  hold  upon  his  throat,  he  only 
wondered  disinterestedly  whatever  became  of  it. 

His  slight  curiosity  was  gratified  in  1709,  when  his  father  sent  him  a  copy 
of  The  Sot-Weed  Factor  under  the  imprint  of  Benjamin  Bragg,  at  the  Sign 
of  the  Raven  in  Paternoster  Row!  The  Pilgrim's  captain,  Andrew  explained 
in  an  accompanying  letter,  had  delivered  the  manuscript  to  some  other 
printer,  who,  seeing  no  profit  in  its  publication,  had  passed  it  about  as  a 
curiosity.  In  time  it  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  Messrs.  Oliver,  Trent,  and 
Merriwcather,  Ebenezer's  erstwhile  companions,  who,  upon  recognizing  it 
as  the  work  of  their  friend,  created  such  a  stir  of  interest  that  the  printer 
decided  to  risk  publishing  it.  At  this  point,  however,  Benjamin  Bragg  got 
wind  of  the  matter  and  asserted  a  prior  right  to  the  poem,  on  the  ground 
that  its  author  was  still  in  his  debt  for  the  very  paper  on  which  it  was 
penned.  There  ensued  an  exchange  of  mild  threats— for  printers  and  sellers 
of  books  are  a  gutless  lot,  even  in  matters  directly  affecting  their  interests— at 
the  end  of  which  Bragg  intimidated  his  rival  into  relinquishing  the  manu- 
script and  brought  out  an  edition  of  it  at  6d.  the  copy.  The  first  result,  An- 
drew declared,  was  a  vehement  denial  from  the  third  Lord  Baltimore  that  he 
had  in  any  way  commissioned  Ebenezer  Cooke— a  perfect  stranger  to  him— 
as  Laureate  of  Maryland  or  anything  else,  and  a  repudiation  of  the  entire 
contents  of  the  poem.  There  were  even  rumors  of  a  libel  suit  against  the 
poet,  to  be  brought  by  the  Lord  Proprietary  at  such  time  as  the  King  saw  fit 
to  restore  him  his  province;  in  time,  however,  the  rumors  had  ceased,  for 
some  favorable  notices  of  the  poem  began  to  appear  that  same  year.  Andrew 
included  one  in  his  letter:  "A  refreshing  change  from  the  usual  false 
panegyrics  upon  the  Plantations  .  .  ."  it  read  in  part.  ".  .  .  admirable 
Hudibrastics  .  .  .  pointed  wit ...  Lord  Calvert's  loss  is  Poesy's  gain  .  .  " 

"What  a  feather  in  thy  cap!*'  Anna  cheered  upon  reading  it.  "Nay,  i'faith, 
'tis  a  very  plume,  Eben!" 

But  her  brother,  surprised  as  he  was  to  learn  of  his  sudden  notoriety,  was 
unimpressed.  In  fact,  he  seemed  more  annoyed  than  pleased  by  the  review. 

*4tITie  shallow  fop!"  he  exclaimed.  "He  nowhere  grants  the  poem's  truth! 
'Twas  not  to  wax  my  name  I  wrote  it,  but  to  wane  Maryland's!" 

Nevertheless,  in  the  years  that  followed,  The  Sot-Weed  Factor  enjoyed 
a  steady  popularity  among  literate  Londoners— though  not  at  all  of  the  sort 
its  author  wished  for  it.  Critics  spoke  of  it  as  a  fine  example  of  the  satiric 
extravaganza  currently  in  vogue;  they  praised  its  rhymes  and  wit;  they  ap- 
plauded the  characterizations  and  the  farcical  action— and  not  one  of  them 
took  the  poem  seriouslyl  Indeed,  one  writer,,  commenting  on  Lord  Balti- 
more's wrathy  observed: 


[804]  THE   SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

It  is  a  curious  thing  that  Baltimore,  so  anxious  to  persuade  us  of  the  elegance 
of  his  former  Palatinate,  should  so  hardly  use  that  Palatinate's  first  Poet,  -when 
the  very  poem  he  despises  is  our  initial  proof  of  Maryland's  refinement.  In  sooth, 
it  is  no  mean  Plantation  that  hath  given  birth  to  such  delicious  wit  as  Mister 
Cooke's  .  .  . 

Such  accolades  chagrined  and  wisened  the  poet,  who  accepted  not  a  word 
of  them.  In  1711,  when  old  Andrew  died  and  Ebenezer  was  obliged  to  sail 
to  London  for  the  purpose  of  probating  his  father's  will,  he  permitted  him- 
self to  be  wined  and  dined  by  Bragg  and  Ben  Oliver,  who  had  become  his 
partner  in  the  printing-house  (Tom  Trent,  they  informed  him,  had  re- 
nounced poetry  and  the  Established  Church  to  become  a  Jesuit;  Dick 
Merriweather,  after  wooing  Death  in  a  hundred  unpublished  odes  and 
sonnets,  had  made  such  a  conquest  of  that  Dark  Lady  that  at  length,  his 
horse  rearing  unexpectedly  and  throwing  him  to  the  cobbles,  she  had 
turned  into  an  eternal  embrace  what  he  had  meant  as  a  mere  flirtation), 
but  to  their  entreaties  for  a  sequel  to  the  poem— <z  Fur-and-Hide  Factor  or 
a  Sot-Weed  Factor's  Revenge— he  turned  a  deaf  ear. 

Truth  to  tell,  he  had  little  to  say  any  more  in  verse.  From  time  to  time 
a  couplet  would  occur  to  him  as  he  worked  about  his  estate,  but  the 
tumultuous  days  and  tranquil  years  behind  him  had  either  blunted  his 
poetic  gift  or  sharpened  his  critical  faculties:  The  Sot-Weed  Factor  itself 
he  came  to  see  as  an  artless  work,  full  of  clumsy  spleen,  obscure  allusions, 
and  ponderous  or  merely  foppish  levities;  and  none  of  his  later  conceptions 
struck  him  as  worthy  of  the  pen.  In  1717,  deciding  that  whatever  obli- 
gation he  owed  to  his  father  was  amply  satisfied*  he  sold  his  moiety  of 
Cooke's  Point  to  one  Edward  Cooke— that  same  poor  cuckold  whose 
identity  Ebenezer  had  once  assumed  to  escape  Captain  Mitchell— and  Anna 
hers  to  Major  Henry  Trippe  of  the  Dorset  militia;  though  "their"  son 
Andrew  III  was  by  this  time  a  man  of  twenty-one  and  had  already  sustained 
whatever  wounds  the  scandal  of  his  birth  was  likely  to  inflict,  they  moved 
first  to  Kent  and  later  to  Prince  George's  County.  For  income,  Ebenezer—- 
now  in  his  early  fifties— performed  various  clerical  odd-jobs  as  deputy  to 
Henry  and  Bennett  Lowe,  Receivers  General  of  the  Province,  with  whom 
he  became  associated  (the  Author  regrets  to  say)  by  reason  of  his  conviction 
that  their  brother  Nicholas  was  actually  Henry  Burlingame,  Anna,  be  it  said, 
did  not  permit  herself  to  share  this  delusion,  though  she  indulged  it  in  her 
brother;  but  Ebenezer  grew  more  fixed  in  it  every  day.  If,  indeed,  it  was 
a  delusion:  Nicholas  Lowe  did  not  in  the  least  resemble  Burlingame's  past 
impersonation  of  him  or  any  other  of  the  former  tutor's  disguises,  but  he 


THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR  [  805  ] 

was  of  the  proper  age  and  height,  possessed  a  curious  wit  and  broad  educa- 
tion, and  even  displayed  what  can  only  be  called  "cosmophilist"  tendencies 
now  and  again.  Furthermore,  to  all  of  Ebenezer's  subtle  hints  and  veiled 
inquiries  he  replied  with  a  mischievous  smile  or  even  a  shrug  .  .  .  But  no! 
Like  Anna,  we  shall  resist  the  temptation  to  folie  d.  deux:  age  has  made  our 
hero  fond,  like  many  another,  and  there's  an  end  on  itl 

Two  things  occurred  in  1728  to  conclude  our  history.  Old  Charles  Calvert 
was  then  a  baker's  dozen  years  under  the  sod  and  thus  unable  to  savor,  as 
did  our  poet  in  his  sixty-second  year,  this  final  irony  concerning  The  Sot- 
Weed  Factor:  that  its  net  effect  was  precisely  what  Baltimore  had  hoped  to 
gain  from  a  Marylandiad,  and  precisely  the  reverse  of  its  author's  intention. 
Maryland,  in  part  because  of  the  well-known  poem,  acquired  in  the  early 
eighteenth  century  a  reputation  for  graciousness  and  refinement  comparable 
to  Virginia's,  and  a  number  of  excellent  families  were  induced  to  settle 
there.  In  recognition  of  this  fact,  the  fifth  Lord  Baltimore  (that  famous 
young  rake  and  dilettante  referred  to  earlier)  was  moved  to  write  a  letter 
to  the  aging  poet,  from  which  the  following  excerpt  will  suffice: 

My  Grandfather  &  namesake,  for  dl  his  unquestioned  Virtues,  -was  no  familiar 
of  the  Arts,  and  thwarted  in  his  original  purpose  in  calling  you  Laureat  (Vo7i  be  it 
said  We  are  confident  he  did,  notwithstanding  his  later  denials  thereof),  he  was 
unable  to  perceive  the  value  of  your  gift  to  Maryland.  We  do  hence  mark  it  fit, 
that  now,  w/i*n  a  generation  hath  attested  the  merits  of  your  work,  you  shd  accept 
in  fact,  albeit  belatedly,  that  office  &  title  the  qualifications  whereto  you  have  so 
long  since  fulfilled.  Namely,  Poet  &  Laureat  of  the  Province  of  Maryland  .  .  . 

Ebenezer  merely  smiled  at  the  invitation  and  shook  his  head  at  his  sister's 
suggestion  that  he  accept  it. 

"Nay,  Anna,  'tis  a  poor  climate  for  a  poet,  is  Maryland's,  nor  is  my  talent 
hardy  enough  to  live  in't.  Let  Baltimore  give  his  title  to  one  whose  pen 
deserves  it;  as  for  me,  methinks  I'll  to  the  muse  no  morel" 

But  that  same  year  saw  the  death  of  Nicholas  Lowe,  which  so  touched  the 
poet  (owing  to  his  delusion)  that  he  broke  his  vow  and  his  long  silence  to 
publish,  in  the  Maryland  Gazette,  an  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  the  Hon. 
Nicholas  Low>  Esq.,  containing  sundiy  allusions  to  his  ambivalent  feelings 
towards  that  gentleman.  Thereafter,  either  because  he  felt  a  ripening  of  his 
talents  or  merely  because  breaking  one's  vow,  like  losing  one's  innocence,  is 
an  irreparable  affair  which  one  had  as  well  make  the  best  of  (the  Reader  will 
have  to  judge  which),  he  was  not  sparing  of  his  pen:  in  1730  he  brought 
out  the  long-awaited  sequel,  Sot-Weed  Redivivus,  or  The  Planter's  Looking- 
Glass,  which,  alas,  had  not  the  success  of  its  original;  the  following  year  he 


t  806  ]  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR 

published  another  satirical  narrative,  this  one  dealing  with  Bacon's  Rebel- 
lion in  Virginia,  and  a  revised  (and  emasculated)  edition  of  The  Sot-Weed 
Factor.  In  the  spring  of  1732,  at  the  age  of  sixty-six,  he  succumbed  to  a 
sort  of  quinsy,  and  his  beloved  sister  (who  was  to  follow  him  not  long  after), 
in  setting  his  affairs  in  order,  discovered  among  his  papers  a  charming 
epitaph,  which,  though  undated,  the  Author  presumes  to  be  his  final  work, 
and  appends  for  the  benefit  of  interested  scholars: 

Here  moulds  a  posing,  foppish  Actor, 
Author  of  THE  SOT-WEED  FACTOR, 
Falsely  prais'd.  Take  Heed,  "who  sees  this 
Epitaph;  look  thee  to  Jesus! 
Labour  not  for  Earthly  Glory: 
Fame's  a  fickle  Slut,  and  w/iory. 
From  thy  Fancy's  chast  Couch  drive  her: 
He's  a  Fool  -who'll  strive  to  swive  her! 

E.G.,  G™\  P  &  L*  of  M* 


Regrettably,  his  heirs  saw  fit  not  to  immortalize  their  sire  with  this  de- 
lightful inscription,  but  instead  had  his  headstone  graved  with  the  usual 
piffle.  However,  either  his  warning  got  about  or  else  his  complaint  that 
Maryland's  air—  in  any  case,  Dorchester's—  ill  supports  the  delicate  muse 
was  accurate,  for  to  the  best  of  the  Author's  knowledge  her  marshes  have 
spawned  no  other  poet  since  Ebenezer  Cooke,  Gentleman,  Poet  and  Laure- 
ate of  the  Province.